


A Threefold Path to Redemption

by rei_c



Series: Threefold Path [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blasphemy, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Bondage, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Caning, Cannibalism, Castration, Character Death, Collars, Cutting, Demon Deals, Explicit Language, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Flogging, Heavy Angst, Heavy BDSM, Limbo, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Multi, Object Penetration, Other, Pegging, Philosophy, Pop Culture, Psychic Abilities, Self-Harm, Sibling Incest, Theology, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-08
Updated: 2008-10-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 118,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21975250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: Sam finds a way to keep Dean from going to hell: he'll go in his brother's place. He knows it's going to be bad and that he'll emerge changed. He never knew how much.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Other(s), Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Lilith/Sam Winchester, Ruby/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Other(s)
Series: Threefold Path [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1581844
Comments: 24
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This deviates seriously from canon following 'Mystery Spot' with traces of events from the rest of season three present, up to but not including the finale. Also assumes that John started hunting when the boys were young and Sam was raised as a hunter's son from almost the beginning.
> 
> \--
> 
> I owe a debt to several writers, notably Dante, Milton, Blake, S. Lidell MacGregor Mathers, and Avetik Isahakyan, as well as to the larger, general Romantic movement. Many websites/poems/plays/books were used as references; if you're interested in a list, I'll be happy to provide one given plenty of time. *Grins*
> 
> The threefold path or ascent is typically found in Christian philosophy but originated with Dionysis. The three steps are as follows: purification (moving away from selfishness towards discipline and devotion), illumination (an opening of mind and spirit to the movement of God and the practice of His gifts), and union (belief becoming experience). For more information, I recommend Gordon Mursell's The Story of Christian Spirituality.
> 
> \--
> 
> Originally posted [here](https://rei-c.livejournal.com/952440.html), with fully listed-out pairings, warnings, and dedications.

Sam finds the answer. 

In a middle-of-nowhere bookshop, while Dean’s haggling to get more money out of the wizened dealer, Sam picks up a folio and starts flipping through it. At first, translating the Latin and Greek in his head, he thinks it’s a bad translation of one of Solomon’s _Keys_ , maybe a few separate sections mingled together, but then he gets to the end of a page and freezes. 

When they leave the bookstore, a few hundred bucks in Dean’s wallet, Sam’s carrying the book. 

\--

They have four months until the deal comes due but Sam doesn’t waste time. Every spare second he has, his nose is buried in the book. Dean bitches and Sam doesn’t take any notice of it; Dean stops the day Sam starts taking notes in Greek.

“You don’t even like Greek,” Dean comments. Sam looks at his brother; Dean’s face is drawn, tight, and he has dark hollows under his eyes. Sam wants to tell Dean that it’ll be all right, that he’s found an answer but he knows his brother won’t accept it. Dean will want to know what the deal-breaker's going to consist of, if he even goes so far as to ask before freaking out about Sam lying dead on the floor again. Dean would stop him from doing what he needs to do. 

Fear thrums like a heartbeat through Sam’s body when he thinks about it. He’s insane to even consider it but Dean’s sold his soul and Sam’s lived without his brother. Those memories have glossed over but the emotions, the agony, haven’t. 

Sam knows what it's like down there. He'll do anything to stop Dean from going to hell. 

“It’s not so bad,” Sam says, and turns back to the book. “There are worse things.” 

_Anything._

\--

On the night when Dean's deal comes due, Dean tells Sam to wait there, in the motel room, gives Sam the keys to the Impala and says, "Don't you dare come after me." 

"Dean," Sam starts to say, but stops when Dean shakes his head. Dean hasn't looked Sam square in the eyes for three days but he does now, does and knows what it's going to do to Sam to see the pain, the rage, that Dean can't hide.

Sam's eyes narrow, shoulders setting, and he says, low and quiet, "If I'm going to have to let you go to hell, I'm going to watch those dogs drag you there with my own two eyes."

Dean sighs, turns away. Only when his back's to Sam does Dean say, "I don't want that to be your last memory of me. Sam. Stay here." 

"No," Sam says, and that's the end of it. Dean can't refuse Sam, not with the tone Sam's using, not with a couple hours left, not when Dean thinks that Sam hasn't found a way and this is the last time they'll have together. 

They leave for the crossroads after a steak dinner. Dean drives and Sam's in the passenger seat, just like always, just like he should be. 

The inside of the Impala is silent. Dean's facing straight ahead and Sam's staring at his brother's cheek. 

If this doesn't work, if they don't accept his bargain, if -- 

He'll do anything.

\--

The middle of this crossroads looks like the middle of any other crossroads. Still, there's some element to the atmosphere, something like reckoning, like payments come due, that sends chills down Sam's spine. Sam recites the word under his breath, going over the pronounciation again and again, and prays he has it right. Dean stands there, says, "Man, and I thought demons liked to be on time. They're missing out on a good piece of soul, here."

Sam stares at his brother, incredulous; this type of bravado, it's, this is so utterly _ridiculous_ it takes Sam's breath away. 

Apparently the demon thinks the same, because Sam can feel her like an oil slick across the natural fabric of the world. He whirls, lays eyes on her, sees her staring at his brother, hounds crouched at her side. Dean hasn't seen her yet; for a moment, Sam and the crossroads demon, this incarnation of her, are in complete agreement. 

"Anticipation makes the taste a little deeper," she says, eyes flicking to Sam before moving back to Dean, striking a pose and looking for all the world like she owns them both. The hounds strain next to her, against her hold, and Sam opens his senses, all the tricks he learned the last time he was in hell. "A little richer. And, oh, your soul is rich, Dean, don't get me wrong, but a little extra? Goes a long way." 

Sam watches as she reaches down, absently, and scratches behind one of the hound's ears. The crowd of hellhounds waits, sitting at her side and panting, their tongues lolling out and dripping saliva that steams when it hits the ground. They're all looking at Dean, all of them except the one that the demon's touching; that one's fixated on Sam. 

"Whatever," Dean says, shrugging, looking at his watch. "Look, I'm late, so can we hurry this up? I've had an extra two minutes and I don't think that's up to your usual level of service. Don't want any kind of late charge on my head." 

The demon laughs, asks Sam with eyes glinting blood-red if he's there because he wants to see Dean die, ripped to pieces and taken to hell. 

Dean's jaw clenches. "Hurry up, bitch. Sam's got stuff to do." 

Sam swallows. The demon takes one step forward and doesn't seem at all surprised when Sam says, "Wait." 

"I wondered if you'd try something," she says. Dean's already telling him to shut the fuck up, to get out of there and away from the demon, the hounds, but the demon lifts one hand and Dean stops talking, grabs his throat like he can't breathe. "The brothers Winchester, so willing to sacrifice the world for one another. I would have been disappointed if you'd kept quiet. Well? You want to make a deal? Your soul isn't exactly worth much time, if you get my drift. It's a little tainted, already a little tattered around the edges, smoking in the middle." 

"He's not making any fucking deal," Dean growls. "Now come on and _take me_." 

The demon laughs. "Oh, Dean," she says, like it's funny. "Plenty of us will be _taking you_ , as you put it. Though I hadn't pegged you to be begging already. Hmm. Pegged you. There's a lovely idea. Wonder if Lilith's had that thought already." 

She keeps laughing but Sam's not. He's not moving, either, except to open his mouth and let loose with that one word he learned, dragged up from the depths of an old occult book written in the worst ancient Greek Sam's ever seen, a word that twists and winds its way out of his esophagus and flows over his tongue with all the subtlety of nails. He shudders but he says the word, full and complete, and when it's over, the demon's silent, staring at him with wide crimson eyes. 

"Dude," Dean says. "Dude, what _was_ that?" 

The demon steps back from Dean, hounds whining low in their throats, showing their bellies. The demon's breathing tight, almost hyperventilating. "How," she starts to say. "How did you. _Where_?" 

"I have rights, now," Sam says. The word gone, spoken, he feels lighter. Heavier at the same time. He knows what he's asking for, what it's going to take. "And I know I just went _way_ over your head. So take your damn dogs and get the hell away from my brother while we wait." 

Miracle of miracles, the demon listens. She moves back. 

\--

Dean's had two minutes since the demon moved and he's spent it asking Sam what's going on, trying to plead with the crossroads demon to take him and let Sam go, trying to get someone to answer him. The demon doesn't, staring at Sam, and Sam doesn't, waiting. 

Two spots of blacker night, deeper and oily, start to appear in front of the crossroads demon. When the figures take shape and materialise, she drops to one knee, the hounds laying on their stomachs and tipping their heads to the side, baring their necks. Sam feels the urge to join them deep inside, the place where he's Azazel's son and not John Winchester's, but he doesn't. Instead, Sam steps in front of Dean and tilts his chin up, glaring. 

"Samuel," one of the demons says. It steps forward; Sam can see the shape of her. He would recognise her face anywhere: Lilith, the queen of hell. "You make me proud. More and more, every day. Such a wonderful specimen, all that power and the knowledge to use it as well. And now you've gone and summoned _me_. Is this fortunate coincidence or am I here for a reason?"

Sam glances at the other demon behind her, sees that the crossroads demon hasn't moved yet, is still on one knee, head bowed. He gets shivers and tries to hide them. "I want to propose a trade. Me for Dean, in the usual manner."

"Do you know what the fuck you're doing?" Dean asks. "Because I don't think you do, Sam. You need to _shut up_ and get out of here. _Now_." 

Sam's not stupid. Dean might've been the comic book geek but Sam's spent a lot of time in the Impala with nothing else to do. He knows about Constantine and remembers his own death. One second in hell lasts forever. 

Still, it rankles to hear Dean question him. Sam probably has a better idea of what's waiting down there for both of them; the deaths Dean experienced thanks to the Trickster, they don't exist now and Dean doesn't remember them. Sam, though. He's died. He's seen hell. It's not something a person forgets. 

Dean thought a year with Sam alive was a good exchange for his soul; Sam's offering three days of everything he is -- mind, body, and soul -- for Dean's eternity. He thinks the trade's more than fair. If any of the Winchesters deserve hell, it's him, demon-tainted and freakish, not Dean.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam says, and steps forward. 

A wall of flames springs up between him and Dean, hot enough to have Dean swear as he stumbles back, hot enough to make the skin on Sam's arm bubble and pop into blisters as his arm hair's singed away. 

Lilith motions the other demon forward, who nods his head once at Sam even though he doesn't stop smirking. "My name is Sycorax, Samuel. Do you know who I am?" 

The demon comes closer, circles around to the back of Sam; Sam stiffens but doesn't otherwise move except to answer, "I thought you were female," like he's an idiot. He must be, he is, except that it's Dean in the balance and Sam doesn't _care_ which demon this is or what form it prefers to possess, just wants to set the bargain and get it over with as fast as possible. 

Sycorax leans forward, inhaling the scent of Sam from behind his ears. A moment later, the demon's tongue snakes out and tastes Sam's skin, the sweat and fear and utter determination. Sycorax laughs. "Oh, Sam. If you're that determined to deal for your brother's eternity, then we won't try to talk you out of it. Let's get right down to business. This is our opening bid: three days in hell, in exchange for Dean's contract," Sycorax says. The demon moves to face Sam, now, close enough to touch, close enough to lean down and kiss. "You for him, three days under Lilith's personal invitation and protection." 

There's a smile on the demon's face. He'll be the one to determine the manner of Sam's stay, then, and Lilith's here because she's the only one who can approve the bargain. 

"Three days in hell for Dean's contract to be null and void," Sam corrects the demon, mouth set in a narrow line. 

Dean's yelling, the sound mutating as it passes through flames tinged blue with sulphur. Sycorax says, "On one condition, Sam. Dean waits in Limbo. If you want out of the deal, we take him." 

Sam doesn't even pause. "Agreed."

Instead of the crossroads demon, Lilith steps forward. "Kiss me, then," she murmurs, "to seal the deal. And may the Lord God of Heaven strike me from existence if I don't uphold my end."

With Dean watching, with the hounds panting and Sycorax grinning and the crossroads demon still on one knee, Sam pulls Lilith to him and kisses her. Their lips slide together, his dry and cracked from anxiety, hers burning with hellfire but so sweet and decadent, and when she bites down, he gasps. Her tongue is in his mouth, then, and he can feel the terms of the bargain written on to his soul. He wonders how Dean ever lived with this feeling for a year, wonders how so many others did it for ten.

She pushes him back and Sycorax is there to hold him. The demon's fingers press into Sam's arm, tight and hard enough to bruise; Sam doesn't object. He doesn't have the right, not now, not for the next seventy-two hours. 

Lilith produces a piece of paper and spits. Sam watches and can see the words forming, sees his name signed with the blood she took from his mouth. "Little Samuel," Lilith purrs. "All ours." She studies him, then cocks her head and tells the crossroads demon, "The brother. Take him to Limbo. All of him, as we take all of Sam." 

"No," Sam says, immediately. Sycorax's grasp tightens but Sam doesn't do the demon the honour of reacting. "I want to see him taken there." 

Lilith smiles, then slaps Sam across the face. Dean yells but Sam's attention is focused on the queen of hell. "If you wanted that, you should have bargained for it. It's too late now, Sam." She trails her fingers above the bruise on his cheek, just light enough for Sam to feel. "Come. We're wasting time." 

And then he's ripped off of earth.

\--

The pain is unimaginable. Last time, when he died with a knife in his back, his body was still on earth and his mind was dead. The only thing that travelled to hell was his soul and it felt a little like going home, the way he feels every time he heads back to the Impala's front passenger seat, the way going home to Jess after his internship felt. 

This time, though, his very bones have been torn out of their normal reality, have been brought to a place that feels like it has twice the gravity and three times less oxygen, the weight of _his_ world pressing down on him even though he can't see it. Sam can't breathe, at first, and then Lilith touches his back and forces air into his lungs. Her fingernails dig in right where Jake twisted the blade in past skin and bone. 

"Wouldn't do to have you die before we even get there," she mutters, sounding displeased -- though not with him.

Sam coughs, feels his lungs seize up again, but her touch must have done something, changed something. He swallows, feels his ears pop, and then he's as fine as a person can be, staring at the entrance to hell when he's still alive. 

"You can change your mind," Sycorax reminds him. 

They haven't even gotten inside yet. Sam's staring at doors etched with angelic script, molten iron red hot from the fire. "Fuck you," he says. "Let's get this over with. Time's wasting," he adds, mimicking and mocking. He can't do anything else, faced with going back to hell. 

Dean would be proud, he thinks, if his brother wasn't so furious at Sam for doing this in the first place. Dean doesn't even know the half of what Sam's had to do to get here. Sam wants to keep it that way for as long as possible. Keep that from Dean, and maybe what this is going to do to Sam will be easier to hide, this and what kind of eternity he's guaranteed for the both of them. 

Sycorax nods and looks at Lilith. 

\--

They open the main gates for him. Lilith stands on his right, Sycorax on his left, and they hold him up by the elbows as the doors to hell blast open with an acrid smell of burning flesh and the sound of screams. It's everything Sam's imagined, everything Sam's expected, seeing it from this perspective, walking in from this entrance. 

"Welcome back," Lilith says, leaning over and smoothing down his hair. Some of the curls have gone to frizz in the heat, ends singed and smoking. 

Sycorax steps forward first and, as the demon steps through the gates, throngs of others come closer, calling out, taunting Sam. He expected that, though; raised to be Azazel's heir, now nothing more than a demon's plaything, sacrificed to _this_ for three days, there's no reason they wouldn't want to spit at him, humiliate him. 

Sam can see Pride lurking there surrounded by sycophants and smirking. If he was doing this for anyone or anything other than Dean, Sam would honestly think twice, but Dean is caught in Limbo and if Sam breaks the bargain, it'll be _Dean_ down here. He can't do that, not to his brother. Eyes fixed on Pride, Sam steps into hell. 

\--

They strip him first, before he gets five steps in, strip him and search him, make sure he hasn't swallowed down anything holy, isn't hiding something up his ass or down his throat. They poke and they prod and when he feels like they can't go any deeper without cutting him open, Sycorax shoves him to his knees. 

Lilith hums at the sight of his tattoo, reaches out and traces over it in the air, following the curves and angles of the flames licking out from the pentagram. "I remember feeling this," she whispers. "It hurt you terribly to get it."

Sam doesn't say anything. She's right, strangely enough; Dean went first and didn't seem to have any problem but Sam felt as if every press of needle was trying to burn something inside of him out. He hadn't said anything at the time, never told Dean, just clenched his teeth together and rode out the ache. Of course, after coming back from hell, after everything he learned, of course it would hurt. 

Sycorax bends down, bares his teeth and licks the ink. He stands straight, lips smoking. "A strong one," he says. "I shall enjoy taking it off." 

"Do it now," Lilith commands. "Take away his security here, in front of every one of us." 

Sycorax grins, bends down again, this time to face Sam. He bares his teeth, eyes mocking Sam, and then uses his teeth to rip the skin away. Sam howls and stops, choking, as Lilith touches him. He looks down, sees a hole in his chest, wonders why it isn't still bleeding. Lilith halfway healed him. He's stunned. 

Sam looks up at her, at her eyes, twinned sympathy and triumph, and swallows, looks instead at Sycorax. 

"Hair is a sign of holiness," the demon murmurs as he holds out one hand. A twisted, crawling little sprite scampers up, shows its fangs to Sam, offers out a rusted metal knife, caked over with blood and clumps of hair. 

Sam keeps his mouth shut but he glares even as he knows what's coming. 

"In the Book of Judges, it is said that when Samson's hair was shorn from his head, he was weak and like any other man," Sycorax says. "But we know the truth, Sam, don't we. He was brought low by a prostitute and her declarations of love because he was weak all along. Still, you can't beat that symbolism." Sycorax strokes the curve of Sam's scalp, grabs hold of his hair and yanks his head back, so that Sam can see every demon stepping closer. 

Sam focuses on Sycorax and Lilith, the pair of them, him so gleeful, her so sad, and waits. 

Sycorax takes the knife, starts sawing off chunks of Sam's hair. It piles like dust around him, catching on fire when it blows away. Soon enough, the blade touches Sam's scalp and Sycorax begins to shave. The knife catches on Sam's skin, tears off pieces of flesh along with hair, digs dip and uneven. Sam can feel infection like water begin to soak through him and he closes his eyes as blood drips down into his eyelashes. 

He doesn't feel his strength of will ebb away, stays kneeling tall and proud. This hurts, there are no words for how much it hurts, being hacked away at like this, but he doesn't care. Dean is in Limbo and he has less than three days to go, now. They won't break him, not this easily, no matter how much he's fought for the right to have his hair as long as he wants.

Cold fingers brush blood out of his eyes; Sam opens them, sees Lilith looking down on him, sees Pride behind her, strangely approving.

He bares his teeth at the demon, eyes narrowed, and starts to stand; Sycorax puts one hand on Sam's head and pushes Sam back down. Nails dig into Sam's skull, he hisses in pain but doesn't say anything. 

"You belong to me," Lilith says, voice clear and loud, carrying through every cavern of hell. "For as long as you are here, you are mine, Samuel Winchester. Let there be a sign, so all shall know whose property you are." 

"I am _no one_ 's property," Sam growls out. 

Lilith smiles, a sinister expression, and holds out one hand. A different demon crawls up on hind legs and belly, a collar in its mouth, held tight between pointed teeth. 

Sam opens his mouth as Lilith takes it, his eyes fixed on the black leather, the four twisted silver buckles. He's about to say something when Lilith looks down at him, one eyebrow raised, and says, "You've given yourself to us for three days, Sam. To _me_. If you refuse this, I'll consider that you're breaking your side of the bargain. Do you still refuse?" 

Dean's in Limbo and Sam has three days to go, minus a few minutes. He can't -- won't -- give up this easily. If it takes wearing a collar to save his brother, Sam will wear a million of them. 

He lifts his head up high, hair falling away from his face, while she buckles it on him, pulls it tight. He swallows and can feel the restraint; he breathes and it constricts his air-flow. Sam hates it, hates it already, but this is for Dean. 

Lilith pushes one finger in next to his skin, under the collar, to test the give, maybe, or to see how much space is left. "You won't touch it," she says. 

Sam hears it as an order. He bares his teeth again and this time is prepared for her to backhand him, break his nose with the force of her hand against his face. The fury never drops from his eyes, even as blood starts trickling over his skin, into his mouth. His nose aches, the blood itches. He's expecting much worse; he starts to compartmentalise the pain, much the way his father taught him. Acknowledge it, use it, work through it -- he'll have to remember that if he wants to survive down here, remember it and remember himself. 

Pride is laughing, somewhere. The sound makes Sam straighten up, back a ramrod line of steel.

Sycorax gestures for another demon; it brings a leash. Sam glares but lets Sycorax attach the end of the leash to the wide o-ring on the front of his collar, lets the demon click it in like he's an animal to be trained. 

A tug sends Sam sprawling on the burning floor, another has him choking as he resists the need to scrabble at the constriction around his neck. "Fuck you," he coughs out, then spits at Sycorax's feet. Saliva steams into smoke. The smell of burnt blood begins to fill hell.

"We'll see about that," Sycorax says. "Now, get up. Time's wasting, Sam, and I want to enjoy every minute I can pull from your wretched little existence."

\--

Sycorax parades him past the demons standing there, watching. Sam's naked and the skin on his feet is blistering, breaking, burning to cinders as he walks. The pain is like walking on hot nails or superheated glass, something he'd never ordinarily do of his own free will. Sam tries to focus on a comparison, breaking it down to minute sensations and not what he's seeing around him. 

It feels like the first time he ran across gravel without shoes or socks -- he doesn't look as Sycorax pulls him through the first circle of hell, looks away from the weeping people, tries not to notice as the blades of grass he's walking through whip through the skin on his feet and legs, covering him with blood. He doesn't look. It feels like the bottom of a rocky lake with fronds of seaweed washing around his legs. He doesn't look. He tries to narrow all of his senses to one thing and settles on the weight of the collar around his neck, such an odd feeling against his skin, constriction where he's not used to any, heaviness when he's used to nothing but air. 

He doesn't look as Sycorax tugs on the leash and they walk through the second level; he concentrates on breathing, not on the lustful souls being punished, not on the electric arcs of lightning connecting with his scabbed-over head and overloading his nerves. 

The third circle, the fourth, the fifth; it's getting harder for Sam to walk, to breathe. He's lost a lot of blood, maybe too much to make it wherever Sycorax is taking him. Sam gets caught in the middle of an argument between a brother and sister in the fifth circle, almost loses an eye. Pitted pock-marks dot his skin from the hail in the third circle and he thinks he's missing a toe, left among the piles of jewels Sycorax dragged him through in the fourth circle. He doesn't want to look. He doesn't want to know.

When they get to the gates and the demons guarding the inner sanctum, Sycorax finally slows down and tugs on Sam's leash. Sam drops to his knees, has to scrabble close to Sycorax in order to breathe. The demon pets Sam's head and merely yanks the leash when Sam tries to move away. 

"Stay," the demon says, smile on its face, as if Sam's nothing more than a trained dog. 

Lilith, behind him, touches his neck. Sam's skin crawls as he heals, head to toe. 

"He's not dead," the demon guarding the gates says. "My queen, unless he gives consent." 

The demon trails off, reaching out to take a contract that Lilith offers without prompting. The work of ten seconds, for the demon to read the contract, and then it looks at Sam. 

"This is true?" it asks. 

Sam looks up, sees Sycorax close to laughter, looks around and sees Lilith, waiting. He could leave. He could let it go. But that would mean sentencing Dean to this. Sam will wait. He will bide his time and hold his tongue as best he can, but he'll do this. No one's going to stop him from saving Dean, least of all a _guard-demon_.

"Yeah," he says. "Didn't you see the blood on the contract?" He turns to Lilith, eyes sparking, tone brazen as he adds, "You have some real winners here, Lilith." 

Sycorax pulls the leash and Sam tumbles, snarling as he does so. 

The demon guard steps aside, inclining his head, and the doors open. 

"Close to the inner sanctum," Lilith murmurs. "But not yet there. Bring him, Sycorax," and she steps in front of them, leading the way. 

\--

This is the place Sam remembers. Not the sixth circle, where heretics are burned alive for all eternity and Sam's fingernails catch on fire, and not the seventh with its violent, its suicides, its blasphemers, where the suicides shove bloody thorns into Sam's arms and chest for the others to light on fire and burn into him. Not even the eighth circle and its frauds; Sam gets bitten by so many snakes that Lilith has to heal him yet again. 

No, Sam remembers the ninth circle, the lowest place in hell, and the centre where Lilith holds court -- where Azazel used to, before Dean killed him with one holy and sanctified bullet, shot from a holy and sanctified Colt. He was here before, the last time he died. 

He remembers the demons, some of them swirling in black clouds he expected, some of them, the powerful ones, creating a physical form that draped around them like cloaks. He remembers the circles, remembers the path leading to the centre of hell. Sam was only in the ninth circle for a few minutes, not long enough for Lilith to notice his presence when she was welcoming so many of the other psychic children, not when he fled into a different circle and hid until Dean made his bargain, but here, this place, he was _here_ and he remembers it well: the ninth circle, home of traitors. 

Sycorax tugs him, almost gently, down to the middle of the pit. Sam looks up, can see circle upon circle of demon looking down and watching him, can hear the screams and pleas for mercy start to fill the air again. He doesn't see any of the other psychic kids; looks for Ava and Andy and Jake, knows they're somewhere in hell but not here, down at the centre. 

Sam can't ignore anything, not now, can't. A shiver of fear goes down his spine -- does he really have _any_ idea what he's in for? He can guess, and has, knows better than Dean because Dean's never been _in_ hell before, and that decides him. He can do this for Dean. He won't give in. 

He steps down each stair, eyes fixed on Lilith, seated on a throne of thorn and bone. She gestures to one side, a sort of room, walls made from bone, stuck together with dried blood, a ceiling of stretched out skin. "Privacy," she says, smile on her lips, "until we decide otherwise. I don't like to share, Sam. You remember that, don't you." 

It's not a question. Sam doesn't treat it as one. His mouth is dry from the heat and when he tries to speak, the collar constricts around his throat. He doesn't know what he would say, at any rate, so he settles for sticking up his middle finger at Lilith. 

She laughs. She laughs and Sycorax laughs. 

That's not good.

"Go on, then," Lilith says, waving one dismissive hand toward the small room. "I shall come to check on our visitor shortly. Make him at home, Sycorax," she adds, wicked grin curving apart her face like a knife. "Because this _is_ his home. It's time we remind him of that." 

Sycorax gives Lilith a half-bow and Sam has enough time to spit at her feet before he has to run to keep from strangling on the end of Sycorax's damnable leash. 

\--

The demon's strong, Sam will admit to that. No matter how much or how hard he fights, Sycorax manhandles Sam onto a stone slab and ties him down. Sam's spitting and cursing to wake the dead but Sycorax just seems to get an unholy amount of glee at being able to force Sam.

When Sam's tied down and has no hope of getting out, no matter how good with the knots he is, Sycorax unclips the leash, hangs it on one hook, a tooth stuck into the bone wall. "Your brother," Sycorax begins.

"Shut the fuck up about Dean," Sam growls, fighting the ropes. "You don't get to talk about him." 

Sycorax gently smacks Sam's foot before saying, "I can talk about whatever I want, Sam, and you know that well enough. Now, where was I. Ah. Yes. Dean. This place would have driven him insane long before we'd had our fill." Sycorax seems pleased with that. "Not a strong mind in that one, such a disappointment after your father."

Sam wants to roll his eyes and does. "You can shut up about my dad, too. You demons, you really have a hard time keeping Winchesters down here, you realise that, right?"

"Not you," Sycorax says, immediately responding. "You know what you've done, giving yourself to us, making the kind of bargain you did. We've always known Dean is your weakness; using him to get you here was a stroke of Lilith's genius." 

"You weren't responsible for Jake killing me," Sam snarls back. 

Sycorax smiles. "That was luck, true, but we knew. We've always known. Bait the hook with Dean to catch our _real_ prey: you, Samuel, our traitorous general. So different from your brother, so different from your father -- your human father, at least. No, you have Azazel to thank for your mental competence as well as for your, dare I say, final destination. And now you find yourself in the home of Cain, the ninth and deepest circle, to be tormented by those you're supposed to lead. You're too much one of us, kind and kindred, to be anywhere else. And your mind is strong, unlike Dean's. You won't be able to retreat into yourself to survive the next three days, no matter how much you wish to."

Sam ignores the warning because he's already come to that conclusion on his own. If walking through every level of hell wasn't enough to break his mind, he doesn't think anything will be. Still, he can't help the sharp retort at Sycorax's allusions, bristling at the idea that he owes Azazel _anything_. "I'm not kind or kindred to demons, Sycorax. If I deserve the ninth circle, it's because I've betrayed my family."

Sycorax steps close, lays one hand on Sam's cheek. His skin crawls. The ropes dig into his shoulders and ankles. "And what are we, if not your family? Now, I don't want you to argue but I know your mouth. So let me help you." He pries Sam's mouth open, ignoring Sam's swearing and biting. Sam gags on the demon's fingers, shakes his head, and Sycorax has to use his other hand to hold Sam's head still, nails digging in across Sam's forehead. 

With no ceremony and less warning, Sycorax rips out Sam's tongue. 

Agony blossoms in Sam's mouth as he chokes on blood. He writhes in his bonds, coughing, a wordless keen of pain screaming its way into hell. 

"The only thing you'll feel," Sycorax says, bending over to croon in Sam's ear, "is pain. You'll come to love it. I have seventy two hours, Sam. I have four thousand, three hundred and twenty eternities to give you. Pain will become the only thing you crave. And when our time is up, you'll find no one can give you what you need unless you stay here, with your family."

\--

Sycorax leaves him there, alone and tied with ropes to a slab, no tongue and in a world of hurt, promising to return soon. Sam passes out, he thinks, at one point; there's no one in the room when he awakens. He has no idea how much time goes by before the sharp, shooting loss of his tongue becomes a dull, aching throb. If there's any justice in the world, the time should have eaten up at least a dozen of his eternities but Sam knows that there's no justice in hell. 

He tries to move and nearly blacks out, stays still and waits for the dancing spots and black lace at the edges of his vision to go away. When he gives it another try, he moves slower, more carefully, and tests the give on the ropes. They're tied around his chest, his shoulders and legs and hips, keeping all of him in contact with the stone slab Sycorax threw him on. The ropes criss-cross and loop and Sam imagines he sees old Aramaic letters in the curves of twine. 

There's no way of getting free. All he can do is wait. It's a very good thing, Sam thinks, that he's always been better at waiting than his brother. Oh, Dean can be patient, can sit in silence for hours on a hunt if it's required, but waiting, there's a difference there, especially knowing what the waiting's for. Dean would be yelling, Sam guesses, even without a tongue, trying to get the demons to notice him, for better or worse, because Dean hates being alone. What his brother must be going through in Limbo, trapped by himself, Sam doesn't want to even consider. 

Sam closes his eyes and draws up an image of Dean, laughing in the sunlight. He focuses on Dean and tries to ride the pain, breathe through it, but it's close to impossible. His vision fractures and Dean breaks apart in a flurry of hacking coughs, eyes open and watering. Every inhale and exhale of breath against the stump of his tongue sends a wave of nausea through him and the smell of smoke and blood means he can't breathe through his nose. He half thinks it might be better if he didn't need to breathe but he quickly erases that thought. Sycorax might feel it's a good idea and pull out his lungs next. 

As if summoned by that thought, Sycorax returns, carrying a tray carved from bone. Sam tries to figure out what it came from, how it's put together, but then Sycorax tilts it enough for Sam to see what the tray holds. He pales, shakes his head, whimpers at the sudden reminder of his missing tongue. 

"Apologies for leaving," Sycorax says, placing the tray on the countertop before leaning one hip against the counter, his other jutting out, arms crossed on his chest. "But it couldn't be helped and I'll need to leave again in a minute. For all that we've been expecting you, it's going to take some time to get things ready. I thought I'd reassure you in the interim, though." 

Sam frowns, confused. Sycorax laughs, sashays over to Sam, runs one finger down the line of Sam's neck. Sam shivers, can't help it. 

"You have always been needy," Sycorax murmurs. "Always demanding, always had to be the centre of attention." 

Sam opens his mouth to argue, forgetting again that he doesn't have a tongue. He chokes, coughs on his words, and settles for staring at Sycorax, urging his thoughts toward the demon. 

Sycorax clicks his tongue against his teeth and Sam glares, both because he hates being chided and because Sycorax is showing off, the bastard. "It's true, Sam," the demon says. "Your brother was always content to be left alone, whether at home or on the hunt, to have only you and your father for company. Oh, he likes going out, doesn't he, and playing fast and loose with Lust and Greed, but at the end of the day, he prefers to be with those he can trust and no others. But you. You need people. You need to know that other people see you, acknowledge you, cater to you. A bad habit from childhood that you've tried to outgrow, but you've only pushed it all to one person. And so Lilith and I will be giving your precious brother some time off. You'll always know, down here, that we're focused on you." He pauses, grins, and adds, "You just might not like the direction that focus takes. But you'll get used to it. Now, think about that and don't go anywhere." 

\--

Sycorax disappears. Time passes. 

Sam keeps his mind busy, trying to ignore Sycorax's promise as much as he's trying to ignore the screams and pleas that filter in through the bone-walls and ceiling of his little room, trying to convince himself that the stench of fear and pain and death isn't so bad. They're trying to stretch out his mind, break him, but he won't let them. He'll fight. 

He starts by reciting government documents, the Declaration and the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, moves on to law cases he can remember, facts and dates and names, going in chronological order as best as he can. It's alphabets after that, English then French, then Spanish, Latin, Greek, Aramaic, Arabic, the bits and pieces of others that he knows, then his multiplication tables, then every mythological system and supernatural creature he's ever studied. He thinks about hell and what others have said about it, everything from the Bible to astral projectors, thinks about what every demon on earth has told him and what's he learnt from his time down here. 

He comes to a few conclusions he'd like to disprove but can't. 

When he's run out of things to recite, when the rip-wind agony floating through him threatens to override his mind, Sam turns his consciousness to 'what-if's. Jess always told him he could be a writer with the way he imagined things and he always laughed, because his mind has never worked in terms of plot and theme and structure. Instead, he makes up cases. 

A girl in Minnesota, found dead on top of an ice-covered lake. Why on the lake? Why in Minnesota? What could have done it? How can he know for sure? How would he track and destroy whatever had killed her? An old man, a father, and a student, none of them visibly connected, drained of blood in central Ohio. A retiree in New Mexico. A pair of twins in New Hampshire. Missing children in Arkansas. 

Sam thinks, and ponders, and imagines, until he can't resist the pain. 

\--

The process of waking is instant. One moment, Sam's unconscious and dreaming of Dean, stuck in Limbo and going insane, and the next he's awake. He blinks, forgets he's tied down and tries to scratch his nose, moves and lets out a small whimper. 

"Wondered when you were going to wake up," Sycorax says. The demon sounds pleasant even as Sam casts his eyes down his own body. What he sees turns his stomach and has him throwing up. Sycorax moves, turns Sam's head to the side, lets vomit dribble on to the floor and start steaming. "I didn't think it would be possible to ignore something like that, even after passing out. Guess I have a great deal to learn about you, don't I, Sam." 

"We both do," Lilith says. Sam's dry-heaving but he manages to catch a great big gulping breath of air, looks at her, standing there, studying him, what Sycorax has done to him. She steps forward, smiles at him and trails her finger along the curve of his right ventricle. Sam shudders. "We know him so well, and yet he remains _such_ a mystery." She lifts her finger and Sam heals, instantly, everything except his tongue. 

His heart sinks. 

"I think we're going to need a different sort of set-up," Sycorax says, thoughtful as he looks at Lilith. 

Lilith returns the look, glances around the room. "Mm." Shimmers of superheated air cover Sam's vision; they clear and things have changed. The slab he was on is now more of a table, edges slanted for run-off. The ropes have become a set of chains and, instead of looping around his entire body, they simply circle his wrists and ankles and connect to giant spikes set into the table's corners. 

As if that wasn't enough to ensure he can't move, there’s one more chain, connecting the o-ring hanging from his collar to one more spike, driven into the table right above his head. He can feel it, so close to his scalp. 

Sam swallows and tries to breathe when he finds himself hyperventilating, though some part of him feels like he shouldn’t be blamed for it. He's spread-eagle and naked, caught beneath the twin looks of Sycorax and Lilith. 

"Better," Lilith murmurs. "And when you're done with this, I'll finish the table." 

Sycorax grins and moves. He doesn't turn Sam over so much as rotate the entire table Sam's chained to; there are laws of physics being broken here but all rational thought has fled Sam's mind and he'd never be able to figure out which ones. Sam hangs suspended by the wrists and ankles, the chains the only things keeping him from faceplanting into the floor of smooth and polished hellfire. He swallows, feels the heat ripple up and over him as Sycorax makes a hole in the slab, right down the length of Sam's back. 

Sam wishes he had the tongue to ask what the demon's doing or thinking of doing but, then again, doesn't, not when he hears Sycorax tinkering with something along the edges of his room. When Sycorax comes back with a knife and slices open Sam's back, Sam can't scream. The heat below him dries out his throat. He wishes he could let out a shriek but he opens his mouth and the insides catch on fire. 

"Oh, come now," Sycorax purrs. "Surely you can handle a little heat?" The demon peels Sam's skin off of his back and then digs through muscle and fat to reach the bones of Sam's vertebrae, tapping each in turn and tearing out the cartilage between them. Sam tries to arch, tries to fight, but there's smoke pouring outwards from his mouth and nose, streaming in tiny ribbons out of his tear ducts, and the chains around his skin have caused blisters. 

The pain is exquisite. It lasts forever. 

"Well, maybe on the other side, then," Sycorax adds, when it's clear that Sam's voice is gone. He flips the table back and Lilith is still standing there, hands folded across her chest, eyes carefully watching him above cheekbones as sharp as the floor cracking open and burning. 

Sycorax spreads Sam's legs, climbs up onto the table, between them, and lifts one above his shoulder. "I'm going to enjoy this," he murmurs, and then leans forward, aligns his dick with Sam's ass, pushes forward. Lilith's touch on Sam's scalp gives Sam enough moisture in his throat to whine in pain. 

"A little more," Lilith says, leaning down enough to kiss Sam's head. The touch of her lips to his skin makes Sam shudder; Sycorax groans as every muscle in Sam's body tightens. "There. Now you can scream. He likes that, Samuel. He likes that just as the first human to do this to you liked it." 

Sam screams, can't _not_ scream. Yes, it hurt the first time he was fucked and yes, his partner did like to hear him scream, but there was pleasure involved as well and the screams were for more, not a desperate plea to stop, to leave him alone. Sam wishes he could tell them that but Lilith only healed him enough to scream, he has no other way of showing how much this hurts, of letting some of the pain out of his body. He screams and screams until his voice is ragged and Lilith is cooing at him, fingers gliding back and forth over his collarbone. 

Sycorax throws his head back, laughing. "Oh, Sam," he says, amused affection threading through his voice as he fucks in, out. "Just think, for all your screaming, you _chose_ this. Dean is still in Limbo. You could call your bargain off and be out of here in seconds."

The coals under Sam's back spit and hiss; Sam arches in pain as his spinal column starts to catch fire, filling the air with the smell of burnt bone. As he arches to get away from the coals, Sycorax slides in deeper. That is its own type of agony. 

"You've taken this upon yourself, Sam. Say the word and it will end, right now," Sycorax promises. 

Sam makes himself meet the demon's eyes. He has no tongue, he cannot speak, but Lilith is here as well, her hand resting on the collar around his throat, her eyes watching him. 

"He was wounded for our transgressions," she murmurs. "And he was bruised for our iniquities, the chastisement for our peace was upon him, and by his stripes we are healed." Holy scripture, spoken by a demon; Sam shivers, hearing it, understanding its reflection. "No, Sycorax. For his brother's sake, Sam will not speak a halt to this. And every second that he is redeeming his brother from our tender mercies, he is becoming our saviour. Already, he understands that much." 

She kisses the tear-tracks away from his skin as Sycorax fucks deeper, harder. 

Sam wails.

\--

Later, after Sycorax has had his fill and Sam has a demon's come leaking from his ass, Lilith heals him with a kiss, sliding her tongue into his mouth. She takes his mouth, his silence, and when she's done, she taps the corner of the table. The surface under his back changes instantly, pieces of jagged hellfire sticking up, digging into his skin, sending tiny little streams of blood toward the edges of the table, dripping on to the floor. 

A piece emerges under his right foot; Lilith plucks it out of the table and holds it up. Hellfire forged into glass, Sam thinks, watching as the piece of glass shines and shimmers in the light, casting red and bronze shadows over his skin. 

“So useful,” Lilith says, tossing the piece of glass to Sycorax, who catches it with a smile. She smiles at Sam, a gleam in her eye, and adds, “Don’t forget about them.” 

\--

Sam’s eternities pass by too slowly. They’re filled with pain and torture and horror and tears. Not once does Sam doubt that he’s doing this for the right reason. Not once does he even think about calling ‘mercy.’ Dean’s in Limbo. Sam’s strong. They can hurt him -- and they do -- but every piece of skin Sycorax cuts, every bone Sycorax breaks, every muscle and nerve Sycorax frays, means that Dean is safe. Maybe going crazy, but, then again, Sam might be as well by the time he gets out of here. There are still a few thousand eternities left, after all.

\--

Sam spends one eternity dreaming of Dean. He doesn't think he's asleep, thinks this is more of a daydream, but he sees Dean back on one of their early hunts just after Azazel died. They were in Oregon, something to do with a siren off the coast, and there had been one moment when Dean was standing near a cliff's edge at sunset. The sun framed Dean's face, played off his freckles, made his eyes look black and endless. Dean had smiled, cocky as always. 

Sam's dream changes. Dean grins and his eyes fill with black. He jumps off the cliff. 

He opens his eyes, gasping, fighting the chains around his wrist and ankles. Lilith is standing at his feet, reaches out and places her hand over his ankle, thumb rubbing across the bone. "He'll never understand," Lilith says. "He'll never forgive you for this, Samuel. In fact," she says, moving around the table, coming up to perch on it next to him, one hand skimming his collarbone, "he may never want to see you again." 

Sam wants to protest, wants to argue, still sees the dream-image of Dean diving to his death playing over and over again across his mind. 

"You've done what he couldn't," Lilith says, gently. "You found a way to save him from hell."

She has a point. Dean would never be able to save Sam from hell, not when he has the blood and power of Azazel running through his veins. 

Lilith leans down, presses her lips to his, featherlight and cool. "Samuel, my little general. Are we all that bad? We are your family and we've agreed to the terms of your bargain. We've given you Dean and we didn't even ask for something that wasn't already ours. How much more generosity would you expect from a pack of demons?" 

Sam hates himself for thinking that maybe, just maybe, she's right again. 

"Listen to us," she says, running her nails across his scalp, a teasing touch tracing the welts and burns still present from Sycorax's knife. "That's all I ask. It isn't too much, is it, really?" 

He meets her eyes, feels like he's jumped from a cliff and is falling through air with no landing in sight. Sam licks his lips and shakes his head. He's not broken. He doesn't owe them anything.

Lilith smiles, moves her hand from his scalp to his dick, coaxing him to full hardness. "You'll get there," she purrs; "you'll learn, Samuel," and takes him in her mouth. 

\--

"What next," Sycorax says, more to himself than Sam, not expecting an answer. Whether that’s because Sam doesn’t have a tongue, or because Sycorax has sewn Sam's lips together with his own nerves, Sam’s not sure. Either way, the demon’s a bastard, asking questions of a man who can’t reply.

One response does come, though, as Lilith leans against the doorway, arms folded across her chest. "Perhaps a lesson," she suggests. "Desire versus will, let's talk to our traitorous saviour about that." 

Sam wants to argue back but he has no tongue and he's swallowed as many pieces of his throat as he's coughed out. He glares, snarls as best he can, and Sycorax's eyes settle on Sam’s sewn-shut lips, Sycorax’s own curving up to smile. The demon leans forward and rips the nerves out; Sam howls as his lips split and bleed and cling to the nerves Sycorax tosses dismissively over one shoulder. 

Sam pants and bleeds, bleeds and pants. 

The two demons wait for him and Lilith nods when Sam settles down, glaring at them through the teardrops still clinging to his eyelashes.

"Cannot against will not," Sycorax says, and picks up a pair of burning hot pliers. "Yes. I like that lesson. And after, we'll move inside." Sycorax's gaze passes over Sam, stretched out and immobile; Sam follows the direction of Sycorax's look as best he can and bites his lip when he sees a row of bones, carved into gleaming needles.

The demon clears its throat and Sam turns back, eyes flicking between Sycorax and Lilith. "Cannot means will not," Sycorax says, casually. "Your father used to tell you that, didn't he? He was right but he was wrong, as well, Sam. In hell, we prefer to think of it differently. To tell someone you cannot do something is to tell them you are incapable. To tell someone you _will_ not, though. That's easy enough to understand. It's a matter of capability and opportunity against desire; no choice against choice."

"For instance," Lilith says, still leaning against the doorway when Sam takes his eyes from Sycorax, tapping that pair of pliers against the chains binding Sam's wrists. "You chose to come here in the place of your brother. That was will. When you were here before, that wasn't. A simple matter, really, but one that humanity has twisted. Parents will say anything sometimes." At Sam's look, she nods, smiles, says, "Even hell's parents. Do you understand?" 

Sam understands much more than he wants to. 

\--

Lilith leaves, waving one hand over her shoulder, saying something about the capacity to scream that has Sam looking back at Sycorax with fear and a certain amount of resignation. Sycorax grins and pries Sam's lips apart, uses rusted staples to pin Sam's lips as far away from one another as they'll go without tearing the skin. He's almost being careful, which Sam doesn't get, not until Sycorax takes the pliers and hammers down hard on his front two teeth. 

They shatter, send pain ricocheting through his mouth, chunks of teeth and dust choking him. 

"Spit them out," Sycorax says. Sam does as ordered, more to keep breathing than out of any desire to please, but the demon simply eyes the shards sticking out of Sam's gums, the other teeth. "Hmm. Which one first," the demon murmurs. Sam closes his eyes and can't stop the screams when Sycorax pulls out every tooth with his pliers. 

It gets worse. When his gums are raw and bleeding, when he doesn't have any teeth left, Sycorax heats up the bone needles and starts poking around. By the time the demon's done, Sam has needles coming out of every square millimetre of his gums and the feel of blisters and scabs has become as commonplace in his mouth as the raw, scraped nature of his throat. 

Sycorax cuts Sam's left thigh open and tears out the _sartorius_ muscle. Sam's agony is drowned out by the noise as Sycorax uses hellfire to burn holes through each tooth before threading them all on to the muscle. 

"An interesting accessory," the demon says, tying the ends of the muscle together, holding the necklace up and looking it over carefully. "Think Lilith will like it?" 

Sam pants, trying to catch his breath through the pain of the needles still in his mouth and the splitting of his skin, the loss of blood and muscle. It's impossible. The taste of blood roils in his stomach. He throws up and passes out, drowning in his own vomit.

\--

He comes to with a start, jumping as he feels cool skin against his forehead. "We'll have to toughen you up," Lilith says. "Can't have you passing out on us like that, so quickly. Sycorax will see to it," she adds. Sam shivers at the promise he hears, then stiffens as Lilith chuckles. "I did like my gift, though," she says, quieter, leaning down to kiss Sam's skull. "Worthy of royalty, my little general." 

Sam jumps, sees black spots in his vision; the needles move as he does, still in his gums. The pain is a sudden rush down to his spine. He looks as carefully as he can and sees through the gleaming mass of needles sticking out of his mouth that his thigh's healed. He looks at Lilith then and sees that she's wearing his necklace of teeth and muscle even though his leg is whole. Sam swallows, wants to throw up again but forces the acid back down. 

"Such a strong will," Sycorax says, standing on the other side of Sam. "I'm pleased to be bending it. I shall enjoy breaking it." 

Sam swallows.

\--

Sycorax is watching him carefully. Lilith is as well, though she's seeing to the business of hell at the same time, taking reports from runner-demons, sending out orders to some of the upper-circle demons on earth. He knows he should be paying attention, knows that Lilith is doing this to instruct him, but his attention is elsewhere. Sycorax has placed candles made of rendered hell-bound human fat around his body, lit wicks made of hair. The flames singe his skin and melt the flesh; Sycorax is collecting Sam's run-off and pouring it back on to him, burning him to screaming. 

"You must focus," Lilith chides him, fingers ghosting over his foot. "You will need to know this, Samuel." 

Sam swallows and nods. As far as tortures go, this definitely isn't the worst he's had to endure. Still, he thinks it's horrifically unfair to use his own body to cause him pain, a feedback-loop of inventive cruelty. He squeezes his eyes shut, wonders what Dean would say about this, opens his eyes and tries to ignore what Sycorax is doing to him. 

\--

Sycorax pauses, looks at the scalpel in his hand and drops it dismissively, shaking his head. The point glides into the meaty part of Sam's thigh and travels down an inch further; if he wasn't already coughing up blood, if he hadn't already screamed his throat raw, he'd be making noise again. As it is, a breathless little whimper is all the protest he can muster. 

"You're right," Sycorax says, leaving Sam for a moment, heading for his wall of toys. "I'm getting bored with that. Peeling off your skin is only entertaining for so long." 

Sam lets his head slump backwards in relief, jerks against his bonds when his skull hits the sharp, jagged pieces of glass and cuts open. 

He never remembers the glass. 

"Let's talk," Sycorax says. When Sam turns his head to look at the demon's back, the glass scrapes against his scalp. "But what about one of your favourites, yes? Shall we talk about Darwin?" Sam frowns, doesn't know where this is going. "Oh, come now, Sam. Surely you can follow. There are some laws older than time. Darwin discovered a few of them by accident: natural selection, survival of the fittest, early eugenics ideals? No? Well, in that case, shall I monologue? Put your head back and listen." 

Sam swallows, wants to argue but can't, not without a tongue. Instead, he lays his head back down.

He never remembers the glass.

\--

"'Without constraints, no progressions,'" Lilith says. "William Blake. He was a favourite of yours, Sam, was he not?" 

Sam has no tongue, no teeth, no larynx. Then again, she already knows his answer. 

Lilith smiles, draws the flechette behind the curve of Sam's left ear. "'Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate.' Blake said that. Do you remember what from?" 

Sam nods, just once, and feels the long needles pinned into his neck shift, sink deeper. 

"That's right," Lilith murmurs. " _The Marriage of Heaven and Hell_. A great work in spite of its flaws. Blake was a lovely English gentleman, but he loved me and hated me in turns. Much like you, Sam." 

The flechette flicks up and Sam's ear falls off, smooth as butter. Lilith lifts it up, studies it, and Sam stares at it curiously for what feels like forever. She bites down on it, hard, and then -- only then -- does Sam feel the pain. 

"There is this about Blake," Lilith goes on, spitting out a chunk of flesh from between her teeth. Sam can only hear drumbeats in his left ear, blood rushing out and leaving him light-headed, but her words filter in through his right, tinny and as if from a great distance. "'Without constraints, no progression.' Rules are made to be broken, Sam, and limits tested. Only through the shattering of old knowledge can we create the new." She pauses, leans down and kisses the tip of his nose. "Only through the shattering of the old persona will the new come into being." 

Sam is still reeling from the loss of his ear, from the tenderness of her lips on his skin, when she castrates him.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes it isn't so bad. 

Sometimes Lilith comes in and traces the arch of his cheekbones, fingers cool and slick like they've been dipped into oil. Sometimes she murmurs and coos into his ears, singing songs of hell's history, telling him stories of Azazel and Lucifer. Sometimes, when she fucks him with her fingers or rides him with her cunt tight around his dick, she tells him how good he's being, how he belongs to her and that she'll always be there for him, always take care of him and love him and how she's waited for aeons to have him. 

Those moments are the few that Sam truly fears. In and among the pain of hell, Sam begins to treasure the quiet moments when Lilith enters, sends Sycorax away, and heals him before treating him as if he really is a prince. Sometimes he almost believes it. 

Sometimes it isn't that good, but is still better than the torture. Sometimes Sycorax pulls up a chair -- Sam tries not to look at it too closely but he can't help noticing that the ribcage still looks as if it's alive, caught and tied to lungs that can't breathe, to a throat that can't scream, and a mind in terrible pain -- and talks. Sometimes the demon reads him books, Christian ones to laugh at and horribly violent ones to take apart as a master editor does a novice writer. Sometimes Sycorax expounds philosophy, taking both his side and Sam's, which is kind, really, as Sam can't speak for himself without a tongue. 

Sam finds himself enjoying these times, even as hellfire eats away at the flesh on his bones first, then the bones themselves later. Sycorax is learned, highly intelligent, and he raises points that Sam has trouble disputing. It's disturbing, _really_ disturbing, how much Sam looks forward to these sessions. 

"You're an educated young man, Sam," Sycorax says, the twelfth time he pulls up that still-living chair. Sam wonders where this is going, doesn't have to wait long. Sycorax leans forward and runs his fingers down the length of Sam's tibia, charred and breaking to dust in the aftermath of the demon's touch. "You've read the great books. You've read Blake, I know, and more than just the required reading. He was a good man, William Blake. He came here once, did you know?" 

Sam swallows, wants to say that he's thought, more than once, that that might have happened. Lilith said Blake loved her and hated her; he doesn't think she'd leave hell for anyone other than the boy king, Azazel's heir.

He can't talk and yet Sycorax nods as if the demon's heard him. "In the early days of his marriage, when he realised his wife was barren. William prayed and his god granted him three hours of our company." Sycorax trails off, as if he's remembering the events in vivid detail. "They passed too fast," he finally says, "for the works he was able to create." Sycorax seems to shake himself. "All of the great writers came here in one way or another, though for some that meant dreaming of our domain. Coleridge, Milton, de Sade, of course. I went to Shakespeare, so that was different, and we sent Pride to Dante though we'll never do that again. War to Machiavelli, Famine to Poe, and we let David Fincher meet some imps, once. Lilith visited Keats' dreams."

" _La belle dame sans merci,_ " a demon says, interrupting. It isn't Lilith. "After all, 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,' and even less when it comes to the queen herself being scorned. What was it she did to Wordsworth? Tricked him into giving up his redemption and then locked him up in one of the suicides' branches after driving him crazy?" The demon adds confidentially, as if he's talking directly to Sam, "Thinks he's been trapped in fucking Tintern Abbey since he died, Wordsworth does. Wonder what all of those Lit Department fucks would think of that." 

Sam tears his eyes away from the picture Sycorax makes and glances toward the door. When he sees the demon there, leaning, casual and indolent, he shudders. Sycorax looks over as well, stands up with a frown written on his face. "What are you doing here?" he demands to know. "And with so little respect for our queen. Lilith." 

"Sent me," the demon says, smoothly interrupting Sycorax again. It straightens up, slinks inside, hips swaying from left to right, eyes fixed on Sam. "She said, and I quote, 'I want him to get a view of our four less reputable cousins. He will need to understand their fate eventually and now is as good a time as any.'"

Sycorax scowls but nods, backing away from Sam and jumping up to sit on a counter-top even as he says, "I hope you'll understand if I stay here to supervise." There's no question but the other demon doesn't treat it as one, merely smiles and lifts one finger to its mouth, watching Sam, thinking. 

Sam takes the opportunity to study this demon closely: dressed in white, a diadem perched carelessly on white hair, white eyes around black pupils. Sam doesn't know if this demon's male or female, can't tell from the clothes of the physical manifestation, can't tell from the voice or the mannerisms. 

"Conquest," the demon says. "My name's Conquest. You might've heard of me?" It sounds hopeful, lets out a distressed sigh when Sam doesn't respond. 

"No tongue, you idiot," Sycorax growls. "Now say your piece and be gone." 

At first, when the demon appeared, Sam had thought Sycorax was jealous that Lilith asked another to join in. Now, Sam thinks that Sycorax might actually be _protecting_ him. It makes him wonder why before he realises that Conquest, that's the first of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Sam gets shivers, glances at Sycorax in mute query. 

"Lilith called them our 'less reputable cousins,'" Sycorax says, eyes fixed on Conquest like the other demon's less than dirt. "They're not full demons. We at least fought to win our freedom from heaven. The horsemen, they still have a place in the divine plan. They're still ruled by celestial prophecy." Sycorax swings his legs and says, "'I watched as the Lamb opened the first of the seven seals. Then I heard one of the four living creatures say in a voice like thunder, "Come!" I looked, and there before me was a white horse! Its rider held a bow, and he was given a crown, and he rode out as a conqueror bent on conquest.' Celestial prophecy, divine plan. The horsemen have both. They have connections to heaven which means they aren't true demons." 

"Close enough to be kin and kindred," Conquest murmurs, voice silky in its argument. "Why did you cut out his tongue?" Sycorax growls and Conquest smiles, looks up at the other demon with a coquettish smile, batting its eyelashes. "Peace, cousin. It was only a question." 

Sam glances between the two, watching as they squabble. Sycorax doesn't like Conquest, that much is clear to see; Sam wonders if that extends to the other horsemen as well, or if it's just this particular one, Conquest's attitude. 

Sycorax studies Conquest, finally says, "He needs to learn to listen. He can't do that if he has the ability to talk. Besides, Lilith and I can understand him well enough."

Conquest raises an eyebrow, looks at Sam. "Ah. So he is what they say he is, then? _Fascinating_." Conquest slides closer, reaches out when it gets close to Sam and lightly draws its fingers down Sam's chest. "So much power contained inside of this meatsuit. So much authority." Conquest bends down, whispers in Sam's ear. "Hail, conquering hero. Except right now, that's me. I'd expect accolades, but as you don't have your tongue, I think I'll take your ass instead. I am the victor, after all. I'm going to enjoy plundering you." 

Conquest straightens up, smiles as its fingers trace the contour of Sam's hipbones, deftly avoiding Sam's dick. The demon's just about to push one finger inside when Lilith's voice washes over him. 

"Stop," she orders, and Sam nearly closes his eyes in relief. She sounds furious. "I said to introduce yourself, not take your enjoyment from him. That pleasure is left to me and those of mine I deem worthy. You will _never_ be worthy of _him_." 

Conquest pouts but Lilith merely stands to one side of the doorway and points outward. Her arm is trembling with rage and Conquest must see it, because the demon rolls its eyes and then beats a hasty retreat. Conquest, conquered, Sam thinks, and then swallows when Lilith turns her gaze on him. 

"What is it that we all see in you?" she asks, and through the anger she sounds honestly baffled. "What draws us to you, Samuel? Is it the shreds of humanity you cling to? The power Azazel placed inside of you? _What_?"

"If you'll allow me?" Sycorax asks, quiet and respectful. Lilith turns a baleful gaze on him, but nods. "I believe it is his endless capacity for suffering. We could never craft one so well as this." 

Lilith holds Sycorax's gaze for one of Sam's four thousand, three hundred and twenty eternities. He's getting used to hell's idea of time. He's obviously been here too long. 

"I believe you're right," Lilith finally says. She rips her eyes from Sycorax, turns them back to Sam. "I want you to meet the others but I no longer trust their restraint. I will be here, as will Sycorax, at their introductions." 

She sounds -- Sam thinks she's trying to comfort him, reassure him. The sad thing is, he believes her and finds himself soothed by the promise. 

He's been here _far_ too long. 

\--

Sycorax plays with him for a little while, has him coughing up blood and screaming more than just his throat raw. Lilith comes back and heals him, just enough so that Sycorax will have a blank canvas to play with when they start over again, and says, "I've tracked down the other three. They'll come in, say their piece, and leave. Quickly." 

Sam wants to ask her what she means, she's tracked them down, but Lilith sees the look on his face and clucks her tongue, fingers sweeping over one of his feet. "War likes to surf nightmares," she says, "and it's nigh on impossible to pin her down long enough to get her to come here for any length of time. Famine spends most of his time on earth frequenting your all-you-can-eat buffets," and her lip curls, though whether it's at the thought of those restaurants or simply being on earth, Sam doesn't know. "As for Death, it grows bored with the reapers from time to time and decides to create new ones. I found it up to its bony little elbows in dead reaper bits." 

Sycorax snorts, shakes his head at the thought. Sam glances at the demon, Sycorax's hands still holding the hacksaw, and then back at Lilith. 

"You're right," she says. " Let's get this over with." She turns, faces the doorway, and calls out, "All of you, here, _now_." 

War comes sweeping in first, her red leather clothes moulded to and highlighting every curve, her flushed skin spattered with blood. Sam swallows when he sees the sword in her arm, the wild look in her eyes, the way she can't hold still, and Lilith tightens her hold on his foot, like she's offering him silent comfort. Famine creeps in next, slow and insidious, as if he's materialising one sagging piece of off-colour flesh at a time. He's naked, belly protruding, dick and balls shrivelled and tiny, and the tattoo of a set of scales surrounds sunken-in eyes and cracked, bleeding lips. 

Lilith waits as Famine moves about the edges of the room, the stink of death and decay filling the air he passes through. Sam's holding his breath, waiting for Death to enter; the fourth horseman doesn't. "Swear on the Styx," Lilith mutters, before yelling, " _GET THE FUCK IN HERE. **NOW**_." All of hell shakes at the command and Death appears in the doorway, phalanges picking something off of its left clavicle. 

Sam blinks, closes his eyes for longer and opens them again. When Lilith referred to Death's bony elbows, she wasn't kidding; Death is a skeleton and Sam can only think of _Family Guy_ and the _Discworld_ novels. He half expects a scythe and a rat, but Sam just sees the bones, dotted with bits and pieces of what he assumes are former reapers. The stench is incredible; he _really_ doesn't want to know how the fuck a reaper dies. 

Famine's muttering something, so Sam turns his head and tries to listen, finally hears him saying, "Loaf of bread for a day's pay, a day's for a pint of beer, and the goddamned oil's gone off. Best to stockpile, store up reserves." It makes Sam shiver to hear. 

It's worse when War passes Famine, snarls at the other demon, and bites out, "I'll clear the way for you, get them to kill all the farmers." She smiles at the thought, though her eyes still glitter and flash with bloodlust, adding with a laugh, "See how well blood-soaked soil grows your fucking barley, yeah?" 

Sam glances at Death, sees the skeleton still standing in the doorway, regarding Sam carefully even though it has no eyes. 

"Say what you will to your prince," Lilith orders them, and the ice of her words is enough to make the hellfire floor freeze over and crack to shards. "Before I lose any more patience." The tone warns them to tread carefully; Sam already knows they won't listen and he's grateful for the protective shield Lilith and Sycorax provide. 

Grateful. He must be going crazy, no matter what Sycorax has said about his strength of mind. 

Famine opens his mouth and War turns on him, brandishing her sword and then bringing the point to Famine's throat. It's clear she wants to go first, but Death breathes and the rattle makes War close her eyes and freeze in place. 

"I go to all people, in their time and place," Death murmurs. Its voice sounds like the scrape of nails against a blackboard, nothing male or female in the noise, and yet not like the androgyny of Conquest, either. It just _hurts_ , makes Sam's eardrums rumble and shatters his _maleus_. Lilith's hand on his foot reforms it a split-second later and the sudden changing makes him dizzy and light-headed. "When I come to you, I will bring you here and set you upon your father's throne myself." 

Lilith heals him again, just in time to see Death incline its head to him and leave. Sam has the irrational urge to ask how on earth Death moves, how it talks when it has no larynx, but he just shakes his head, trying to clear his own head from the vibrations of Death's voice. 

"Fucking Death," War snorts, looking in the direction Death has just disappeared in. "I do all the work, it reaps all the souls. Lazy assed bastard." She turns her eyes to Sam, bares her teeth at him. Uncowed, sure of his place in Lilith's plans, Sam merely lifts an eyebrow at her show of aggression. She laughs, takes the sword away from Famine and lifts it up, shoving it in the scabbard strapped to her back. "I tell you what, prince. I made a bargain to ride the winds and nightmares for your father. I'll do the same for you, if you promise me one thing." 

Sam lifts the other eyebrow in question. 

War steps closer but not close enough to touch, mindful of Lilith. "Promise me an apocalypse. A good one, a proper one, where I can let my dogs roam wide and free. I want blood staining rivers red and turning soil to mud. I want screaming in the night air and despair come morning. I want fear and suspicion. Give me your word that you'll bring this to pass and I'll serve you from now until heaven's commander summons me." 

Apocalypse. Destruction. Sam is getting a good idea of what his fate is. Destruction is the least of things he'll be expected to accomplish. He knows what war is. Everyone in this room knows that he's been waging one for as long as he can remember. 

Lilith and Sycorax looking on, Sam nods. 

A smile blooms across Lilith's face. It. They've bent him so far that he's starting to fray around the edges. It pleases Sam to see that smile. It fills his belly with warmth to know that he's responsible for it. He's starting to break.

War tilts her head in Sam's general direction and walks away, cracking her knuckles. 

"Don't forget about me," Famine pleads, pitiful and small in one corner. "I'll bring you souls, I'll cause chaos and pain and arguments. I'll raise prices and I'll force humans to decide between food and housing and I'll kill the earth and send disease roaring through population after population. Just don't ignore me. I can do so much for you if you remember me."

Sam nods, almost against his will; he remembers all of the commercials for starving orphans in Ethiopia and Somalia, he's campaigned for the refugees in Darfur and to clean up the Ganges. He's seen the power of War, sure, and felt the heady lust of Conquest, but he and Dean have had to cheat and steal money from people in order to eat for years now. He's intimately experienced the fear of Famine's presence. He won't forget. 

Famine practically crawls out of the room. Lilith takes a deep breath, then turns to Sycorax. "That went well," she says. Sycorax nods, just once. Lilith sweeps toward the door, pauses at the threshold and puts one hand on the doorpost, turns to look at Sam over her shoulder. "Our little Wilhelm," she murmurs. "You've made me very proud, this eternity." 

Sam blinks evenly, tries to pull up what he can remember of Goethe. 

"Mignon, I think," Sycorax replies. Sam blanches at the implication and Lilith harrumphs, sweeps out of the room. 

Sycorax studies Sam, then says, pleasant as can be, "Right. I think, perhaps, we'll try some acid from the seventh circle next. The only question is where to apply it." Sam swallows and starts mewling piteously when Sycorax begins to place small drops of acid all over his body.

\--

Lilith sweeps in to the room, covered tray in one hand. "Leave," she orders Sycorax. Sam wants to go limp in relief but lacks the muscles so he glances at the tray warily and then lets his eyelids flutter closed. Dean, he reminds himself. He's doing this for Dean. He can make it; he has to be getting closer and Dean would survive this treatment, demonic gifts or not, about as long and as happily as a fish would survive on dry land. Of course, Sam thinks, Dean wouldn't be here, like this, favoured pet of Lilith. Dean would be in the second circle, maybe, or the seventh; his punishments would be limited but fitting enough and hell itself would break his mind in a matter of moments. Dean, Sam thinks. He has to think of Dean.

A smack right on his nipple has Sam opening his eyes, jerking in the chains, tearing his back to shreds on the table. He sees Lilith frowning at him. She had only just healed him. 

"I don't appreciate your distraction, Samuel," she says. Sam bites back the urge to apologise. "I suppose it's only natural, though. Sycorax and I have been asking a great deal of you lately. Unfortunately we're only going to be asking more. So I thought a break was in order. If you'd rather spend it thinking of your brother." 

She trails off and arches an eyebrow. Sam's torn, knows that before his stay began he wouldn't have hesitated to retreat to Dean but he's curious about Lilith's definition of a break, wonders what she has in mind. Curiosity killed the cat, he knows, but Lilith heals him when she comes in, heals him and talks to him and fucks him. Sycorax is the one who pulls his body apart, who makes him scream and wail and cry, not Lilith. Knowing that he's one step closer to truly damning himself, knowing he shouldn't, Sam flicks his gaze from Lilith to the tray she's holding, back to her. 

Lilith smiles, raises a hand, and watches as the floor rises upwards to create a small table next to the one Sam's chained on top of. She sets the tray down and lifts the lid; Sam's not sure what he was expecting but it definitely wasn't a bottle of red wine, a loaf of ciabatta bread, a plate of rare meat, and a hunk of white cheese. 

He looks at Lilith, stunned, and she says, "Yes, well. I know we don't expressly _need_ food down here but it can be so nice to indulge sometimes. Hungry?" 

Sam's stomach growls and he feels acid rising up through his throat. He gags, turns his head until the chain holding the collar to the table yanks him, and wishes he could ask Lilith where she got the food and why it hasn't gone putrid and rotted already in hell's heat. He has no tongue and no need for food. 

"Not for you," she says, taking one of Sycorax's knives from the counter, using it to slice some bread, pile up meat and a piece of cheese. "For me. But I thought I could share the wine." Lilith takes a bite, chews and swallows, murmurs, "There really isn't anything like a pound of traitor's flesh." 

Sam stares as Lilith takes another bite, looks at the plate of meat. His stomach turns and he vomits again. Lilith wipes his forehead with her hand, tilts his head and opens his mouth. She pours wine down his throat and strokes his chest. 

She smiles, says, "Come now, Samuel. This one has been aged nicely in Judecca -- the ice keeps the flesh sweet and tender. You'll enjoy this once you've the tongue to taste it."

He feels sick, watching her eat, half-wondering if the cheese is really cheese or something else. She doesn't say, just tells him stories of Azazel as she finishes the plate, as she helps him drink the rest of the wine. Sam gets light-headed from the alcohol and is letting it dribble out of his mouth by the time she's satisfied. She sucks her fingers and then licks up wine from his skin, and after he's cleaned, she fucks his ass with the wine bottle while she rides his dick. 

\--

Sycorax wants to cut off his arm. Actually, Sycorax wants to bring some sort of creature down here to bite off Sam's fingers, one at a time, and then let a barghest gnaw away his arm from the wrist to the elbow -- Sam's learnt his lesson on precision and learnt it well. 

Lilith won't let him. At this point, with his vertebrae charred beyond recognition more than once, with every bone is his body broken at least four times, with the flesh melted off of more than feet, Sam wonders why not. It's not as if he has any choice. He'll scream whatever they do, scream and cry and beg without words, but it's late in his second day and he hasn't gone back on the deal. A day until Dean's safe; all Sam has to do is hold on. 

"Oh, please," Sycorax asks Lilith, the demon almost begging. Sam's never heard that before, that tone; he looks at Lilith in disbelief. It demeans Sycorax to beg, makes the demon less than what Sycorax is and should be. Sam finds himself wanting to yell at Sycorax, close to desperate for the demon to act normally, and he's glad in the moment that his tongue's gone. 

It's almost _insane_. Sycorax hurts him, has hurt him over and over again in the most terrifyingly imaginative of ways, and yet now he wants that demon back, would rather have Sycorax's nails drawing bloody furrows across his stomach and down his legs than witness the demon pleading. 

Lilith rests one hand on Sam's foot and the skin around her touch heals, a wave of comfort spreading out as the sweet smell of burnt almonds gives him back his skin, his bone marrow, healing out the scabs and replenishing his blood. He sighs, relaxes and flinches as the glass shards underneath him undo everything that Lilith's just done -- flinches, but doesn't move off of them. 

She gives him a kind smile, caresses his skin and moves her hand upwards. Sam arches, can't help it, not with the way her touch feels, the only cool thing Sam's come into contact with since he stepped into hell. 

"I gave you leave to treat him as you see fit," Lilith says, voice a crisp rebuke, sharp as any of Sycorax' knives. " _You_ , Sycorax, not any of your pets." Lilith glances at Sam, smile curving her lips. "Though I take precedence." 

"Of course you do," Sycorax says. His eyes flick between them and he steps backwards, spreading his arms as if offering Sam to Lilith. He smiles, dipping his head. 

Lilith nods her head, waves one hand absently so that the hellfire-floor shudders and breaks open, specks of lava splattering over Sam's skin. He whimpers, twisting on the glass, but Lilith runs her hands down Sam's side, playing absently with the knots of his tired, sore muscles. The floor rises; Lilith steps on it, straddles Sam and draws her nails down Sam's chest, drawing blood. 

"Our little prince," she murmurs. She doesn't have to do anything else; he's hard, aching for her, at the feeling of his skin split open by her nails, the breath she exhales next to his face, rank and reeking of death. Lilith slides down onto his dick, settles there, and lifts a hand. "Whip him," she says, imperiously. "Now, with the silver, while I ride him." 

Sam shudders underneath her, the tight heat of her cunt, the anticipation of the whip. 

His back is in shreds, skin hanging off of him in tatters and chunks of bone burning on the floor, when he comes. 

Lilith laughs and strokes his cheek, leaving a line of welts down the side of his face. "My little general."

\--

Lilith comes to visit early on the third day -- Sam's getting a better sense of hell's fluid time the longer he stays here, something he finds slightly terrifying if he focuses on it for too long.

She takes a seat next to him, strokes nails as sharp as rusted screws down the nerves of his arms. He shivers, grinds himself down on the glass beneath him to keep from making any noise. Still, she smiles.

"I thought perhaps I'd give Sycorax a break," she says, "and a few of the other demons have asked if they can help with your." She pauses, plays his muscles like a guitar. "Education. They heard the horsemen came to see you and I think some of them are a bit jealous." 

Lilith gestures over her shoulder with that and Sam's eyes slide from the ceiling to Lilith, then to the doorway. Change is never good when it comes to Sycorax, but Lilith is different. Sam understands what Lilith has been doing to him, why she comes to see him every so often, and as much as he wants to fight, he can't. He understands her because she understands him; every time he fights, she fights back in a way he can't refute.

Lust is leaning against the door, all indolent smile and lazy invitation. Sam's mouth dries; he looks at Lilith, shakes his head.

"You are only human, still," Lilith says, standing. When she takes her hand off of Sam, he's as healed as he's ever been since entering this room. "'The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom,' and if wisdom is your destination, the journey must be completely excessive. So let's take a walk through your excesses, shall we?"

She crooks a finger and Lust comes walking forward, hips swaying, to take Lilith's finger in her mouth, sucking with hollowed cheeks. Sam swallows, feels the heat of hellfire flood through him but he knows this is all from Lust.

Lust. Sam looks at Lilith, clearly confused. 

"Oh, you thought they died?" Lilith asks. It's clear she's enjoying this. "And it's only crossing your mind _now_ that my daughter killed a few, that you and your friends sent the others back here? Come, Sam. You're more intelligent than that. My Magnificent Seven can never be destroyed, not so long as humanity exists. You recreate them at every turn, with every breath." 

That shouldn't surprise him and, on one level, it doesn't. What _does_ , though, wholly and completely, is Lilith's reference to her daughter. Ruby is Lilith's _daughter_? 

"We'll talk about that later, Sam. For now, let's focus. Let's explore your lusts," Lilith says, and pushes Lust closer to Sam. The demon comes close and looks back; Lilith nods, and so Lust leans down, licks a path around Sam's left nipple, still sore although it's been healed. "The lust for power, which explains your choices at Stanford. The lust for knowledge, which can never be fulfilled, can it? The lust for revenge, against Azazel, against your human father, against your destiny. The lust for _meaning_ , which led you here. And then there's the other lust."

"More fun," Lust murmurs, before latching on to Sam's nipple and biting, sucking. Sam arches upwards, cock hard, fighting against the bonds on his wrists. "So receptive," Lust adds, straddling Sam and forcing him down, back onto the glass. "Dean will have a field day with you, won't he." A rush of fire goes through Sam's body, head down to his feet, as Lust says his brother's name. He shakes his head, tries to clear his mind, but Lust says, "You can't hide that, Sam. Not from me," before forcing his mouth open and her tongue inside.

Sam whimpers. All he can think about is Dean, Dean forcing him down, Dean opening his mouth wide and fucking it, first with his tongue, then with his dick, hard and rough, claiming, Dean tying him to the bed and fucking him open, fucking him so _hard_ that Sam won't be able to walk, will feel it for days even though Dean won't wait that long before doing it again.

"Give it up, Sam," someone says, by his ear. His mind knows it can't be Dean but it _sounds_ like him, the way Dean sounds just after he's had a good session of sex, comes back to the motel room reeking of come and sweat. Sam shakes his head, tries with all his might to ignore the teeth biting his neck, tongue soothing away the sting. " _Sam_. Come for me, little brother." 

Lust astride him, Lilith next to him, Sam keens and comes, panting. He comes and comes and he tries to say his brother's name but the closest he can get is a minute of tears, licked away by Lilith.

"Incest is such a delicious sin," Lilith says, when Sam's caught his breath, when his blood is dripping in a steady rhythm on to the floor of hot coals, sizzling up and filling the room with smoke. "So excessive, Sam. So decadent." 

Sam wants to fight, wants to say he's never even _thought_ about it, but that would be lying. He has, he's jerked off more times than he knows to the thought of Dean, but he's never, ever, said anything to anyone else. 

"Lust knows," Lilith says, following the path of Sam's thoughts. "If anyone other than you and other than me was to know your deepest, darkest sexual secrets, it's going to be Lust. Does this surprise you?" 

It doesn't. Then again, Lilith already knows that, too.

\--

Lust stays for a while, coaxes more out of Sam; thoughts about Dean, thoughts about Jess, even a few he'd forgotten about, from the time he was twelve and had a crush on his English teacher to the time he was seventeen and wondered, once, what it might be like for his dad to come home drunk and act on something Sam's convinced he only imagined seeing in the back of John's eyes, to the night before he came to hell, watching Dean flirt with a woman and thinking about being in the middle.

He comes and Lust licks up every drop; he cries and Lilith drinks his tears down like the finest wine. 

Lust leaves and Sam watches her, eyes glazed over with exhaustion, dick raw and aching in pain, wanting to call her back.

"She's always had a soft spot for you, Sam," Lilith says. The demon leans down, whispers as if she's sharing a secret. "I think she'd like to displace your brother, take you for her own. But she's not strong enough to tame you; I can only think of one other, besides me, and she won't bring you to heel for fear of breaking you. So what about sloth, hmm?" Lilith asks. "Shall we move on? Oh, I know you're too proud to admit to it but I think if you knew the history you might think otherwise."

Sam stares at the ceiling, wants this to be over even though he has the majority of the seven left to suffer through. He can hear a demon shuffling in, too lazy to pick up its feet, too down to summon up the energy. Lilith strokes Sam's forehead, leans down and presses a kiss to his temple.

"Dissatisfaction, discontentment, restlessness, instability," Lilith lists off. Sloth comes closer, collapses over Sam's feet, driving them through stakes, grinding his calves into the glass. "Lie to me, Sam. Tell me you've never felt any of those. Your _life_ is one unstable episode after another and you've internalised that. Stanford, its rules and regulations, they bothered you; half the lure of the practice of law was due to your dissatisfaction and discontentment."

Sloth hums and Sam can hear his Con Law professor reciting dry antitrust act facts, feels like he doesn't fit in his skin. He longs to break free, cut open his skin and fly outside of his body, go in search of something that suits him, something that feels like _home_ , but all he can hear are statistics, all he can think of is the majority opinion in the Sherman case.

"'Every person who shall monopolize, or attempt to monopolize, or combine or conspire with any other person or persons, to monopolize...'"

Sam wants to run away but Lilith strokes the curve of his skull, whispers calming words, and says, "You fit here, Sam. You've thought before that you feel things more keenly than other people do, that things affect you more. Certain ones do, Sam, because of what you are underneath that meat-sack. You belong here with us. We welcome your excesses. We _embody_ your excesses. And you are our manifestation."

She brings in Gluttony and Sam gets the most intense craving for sushi he's had in years, since Stanford and Jess' indulgence of his odd hankerings. He explained it away as having come from a family unwilling to explore new things, never told her about diner after diner with no difference. 

"I know you think Dean fits Gluttony better," Lilith says as the other demon's putting its ear to Sam's belly, listening as Sam's stomach gurgles. "Don't get me wrong, your brother has his downfalls and gluttony's a big one, but don't think you're any better. It was Aquinas who thought that gluttony was also found in the constant eating of rare and expensive foods." 

Sam smells steak, something spicy and grainy, like curry and couscous, and his mouth waters. Gluttony keeps its ear pressed to Sam's skin, following the line of Sam's stomach up to his esophagus, to his throat, pries open Sam's mouth and licks inside to scour for that saliva. Sam tastes rare beef and grilled asparagus, deep-fried lo mein and saffron rice. He whimpers, opening his mouth wider, trying to swallow the taste down. He wants more, wants it _all_.

Distantly, Sam can feel fingers sliding in his ass, but his attention is focused on the flavours bursting in his mouth and not on the way his legs are spreading as far as they'll go, not the way Sloth's pushing him full of restlessness, writhing under the three demons. 

\--

Sam comes and Lilith scoops up the mess, pushes Gluttony out of the way and sends Sloth tumbling on the floor so that she can shove come-covered fingers in Sam's mouth and order him to suck. His mind has dissolved into fuzz, Dean and the need to run and caviar all mixing together, and it's all he can do to pull edges of his consciousness back together and remind himself of who and what he is, why he's even here to begin with. 

Lilith smiles at him, uses her sticky fingers to cup the curve of his skull. "And that's why you're so different, Sam," she murmurs, before licking traces of his taste out of his own mouth. "So many would have simply fled. So many would never have made it this far." 

He still has come drying on his skin; Lilith digs her nails in, wipes up come and blood and flecks of skin. "Open for me, little Sam," she murmurs, and Sam, focused on keeping his mind from dissolving at the edges, does as directed without thinking. Her fingers fill up the hollow where his tongue should be, nails scraping the back of his throat, and she says, "Suck me clean." 

Sam does, cheeks hollowing from the vacuum. He tastes like sin on her, wild and wicked, just as corrupt and craven as Lilith tastes, flavour bitter and sour but he can't get enough. He tries to swallow her fingers like he would a dick, working the muscles of his throat. 

She laughs, her other hand playing with one of his nipples. He shudders, shivers, and when she takes her fingers out, slick with spit, his head moves, blindly following, trying to get her back.

"We'll get there," she promises, and Sam opens his eyes to see her summoning another demon forward. "We have plenty of time left, after all." 

\--

In the time it takes Sam to stop his head from spinning, the next demon comes into the room. Sam can smell the plastic of new textbooks, fresh paint, and hear the sound of money on top of the revving of new engines. 

"Greed, then Envy," Lilith says, almost as if she's reciting a lesson. "The two are close but not the same. Greed for possessions, envy for less," she pauses, pats Sam's forehead, "material things. But all in good time. Now open your eyes or I'll be forced to pin them open." 

In an instant, Sam's eyelids move upwards; he doesn't want to chance pushing her too far, not when her moods are more mercurial than his. He sees her smile at him and then his glance slides to Greed. Gluttony was fat, huge and rotund, taking up space even as it wanted more and more, but Greed is a thin, angular demon, full of sharp pointed edges and a demand to be more. Sam is suddenly terrified, but if Envy comes next there are only two after that, Wrath and Pride, and Sam knows which one will be last. 

"Focus," Lilith orders, voice cracking a sharp demand. Sam wishes he could disobey, wishes with everything in him, but he can't. More than that, he won't. 

Greed doesn't come too close, prefers to stay back, near the door, as if it has something outside and is terrified of losing it. Sam doesn't need the demon to come close, though, not to feel the effects. 

Lilith strokes his cheek, leaving a line of festering sores in the wake of her touch. "Greed has spent much time with you over the course of your life," she says. "All of them have, but where Pride takes a particular interest in your destiny and Lust finds herself smitten by your physicality, Greed likes to scamp about in the playground of your soul. Do you know," she adds, "that Dante put Greed over all of the traitors, the deserters, the thieves and robbers?"

That might have been my life, Sam wants to say, but I never bought into it. I never liked it. All the fraud, all of the lying, all of the stealing, I never wanted to do any of it but I had to, they made me.

"Excuses," Lilith says, dismissive. "All excuses and not even believable ones at that. You always had a little thrill getting away with your crimes when you were a child. That hasn't changed any, Sam. Don't lie to me. It's not becoming. You want more money, you want a better home, you want a faster car; all of these things are normal human desires. Don't be ashamed of them. And don't be ashamed that you can pick pockets or hustle at pool or don't mind a bit of breaking and entering. We all have our skills, we all get our fun from different places." 

She's right. Sam hates it but she's right. He's not sorry he wants more and he's not about to leave hell and give back everything he's wrongfully taken. Sure, some of that was necessary and some of it was to test his skill, but some of it was for fun and it was much more harmless than any other number of things he could've been doing. Nothing he did ever hurt anyone. 

"Justifications are a beautiful thing, Sam, but you don't need them here," Lilith murmurs. "Not here, not with me."

Sam blinks up at her, apology in his eyes, and she lets out a long exhale, nods for Greed to leave, the lesson over. "Send in the next one," she calls out, and as Greed scurries out, Sam can see the shape of the next one in the doorway.

Green, bulbous with spikes sticking out; Sam doesn't need the demon to come any closer to realise that this is Envy. Envy cuts, bleeds, and his mind is flooded with images of Dean hooking up with a new girl in every city, the fire in his belly that just keeps saying _wantwantwant_ , flooded with images of perfect suburban life, lawyers on television, children with two parents. 

Like the beat to one of Dean's cock-rock songs, _wantwantwant_. 

Sam shakes his head, tries to force the pictures away, tries to block off his mind the way Missouri taught him, but Envy comes over and drops spikes into Sam's hand. He arches, pain flooding through him and disturbing his efforts to hold his mind sacrosanct. 

Pain brings with it hatred for everyone who had the normality Sam wanted so desperately and it brings Lilith whispering, "You feel things so strongly, Sam. You have never been happy, have you? How did it make you feel, all your life, to have to lie, to have to pretend, to have to tell people you liked your life when you just wanted someone else's?" 

Envy's spikes dig into his hand, deeper and more far-reaching than a knife. Envy laughs, a jealous, sick sound, and rolls on top of Sam. Lilith breaks one of the spikes off and gives it to the other demon, gestures at Sam's ass. Envy starts to fuck Sam on one of its spikes, and Lilith goes on, says, "Ride it, Sam. There's no need to lie. We know you, we know your wants. Take it from them." 

When Sam was eleven, he punched another kid, simply because that kid had a mother who picked him up from school and took him to soccer practice twice a week. He watched the kid bleed, broken nose, twisted ankle, and felt _wantwantwant_ like food poisoning in his gut. 

He can see that kid now, wants to kick and rage and scream and steal, and in his wild, near-mindless attempts to get free from his bonds, he fucks himself deep and hard on Envy's spike, blood running everywhere. He doesn't care. At this point, the pain is what he wants, to remind himself that he's human at the same time he's reminding himself of causing pain to someone else, someone who had something that Sam _wantwantwant_ s. 

When Sam was nineteen, he saw a girl he wanted and, in the next instant, saw her boyfriend. He saw Jess -- perfect, beautiful Jess -- and he coveted her. She never knew that Sam orchestrated her most painful break-up ever, that she didn't run into Sam by chance, that Sam even knew of her before that day in the café. His perfect, beautiful Jess never knew him or what he was capable of or the level of _wantwantwant_ that he's been trying to fight off his entire life, trying and failing. 

"What do you want, Sam, at _this_ moment?" Lilith asks him. Sam has no tongue, he can't answer, but he leans up and lets another of Envy's spikes puncture his upper lip, drive through his mouth and out of the back of his neck, puncturing blood vessels and severing nerves. He clenches his muscles around the spike in his ass and comes so hard he blacks out. 

When he was sixteen, Sam looked out of his bedroom window and saw Dean practicing a _kata_ in the back yard, shirt off, face tilted up to the sun. Sam felt want. 

Lilith wakes him up and Envy is gone, he is healed. She looks pleased at the same time Sam can see the sadness in her features. "The depth of your carnality," she says, calmly, "amazes even me, at times." She sighs, just looks at him for a moment, and then asks, "Shall we see if your anger does as well?"

Sam doesn't want Wrath to get anywhere near him. He already knows, without the demon close, that he's made a life out of anger and hatred, that there's a core of pure fury deep at his centre, giving him power and determination and stubbornness. 

He looks at Lilith, plea in his eyes, but she sighs, pats his hand, and says, "All of them, Samuel. Or else the bargain's broken. Is this your limit, one of the glorious seven, when you've already seen five of them? When Lust has already delved to the core of your obsessions and when you've been fucked on a spike of Envy?" Lilith leans over, tugs at the collar around Sam's throat, and says, almost idly, "Will you reject me even now, after I've placed this on your neck?"

In some part of him, Sam actually wants to apologise. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath through his nose, shakes his head once. If accepting her will save Dean, he'll do it. Anything, he told himself, before he came down to hell; he'd do anything for Dean's soul to be saved. That hasn't changed yet with all of the torture and indignity they've put him through and it's not going to change now, no matter how terrified he is of the last and more powerful deadly sins. 

Lilith snaps her fingers and Sam feels it like he's standing in the middle of a storm, electricity from a distance meeting his skin and bouncing back. Another second and it hits like a sheet of rain, drenching him from head to toe; it's all he can do to ride the waves of rage. He snarls and bares his teeth at nothing and no one in particular, forced deep into an animalistic fight-and-destroy response. He's only soothed enough for conscious thought when Lilith kisses his cheek and licks at the corner of his mouth, her breath mixing and mingling with his. 

"Hatred," she says, and Sam opens his eyes to see Wrath, a demon in female form, eyes bloodshot and wild, hair and cheeks red, hands clenched into fits. "And anger, and the willingness to carry out a just punishment when the law is not. Spite, suicide, rejection, murder, self-denial, assault. One of your writers characterised it as 'ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds,' and she was right. What ties you and Wrath together so tightly, Sam? Shall we see?"

"He never listens to me," Wrath says. Her words are Sam's words, as if she's peeling them right from the surface of his thoughts. "He doesn't think I'm any good. I can't ever do anything right. I'll always be the little one. They're suffocating me. They think I'll never learn." Sam closes his eyes. "I'll kill them. I'll kill them all for this. They need to pay. Nobody's going to make them pay. I hate you. I'm so angry with you. You'll never understand. They don't deserve to live. Come here. Stop fighting me. I could kill you I'm so mad. Let me go. What the hell are you doing? You never fucking listen. You don't want me back? Well I don't want to _come_ back. I hate you, I hate you, _I hate you_." 

Sam breaks out into a sweat as Wrath's words burrow deep into him, find that pit he's closed up so tightly and explode it open and outwards. Everything she's said, he's thought before, at the very least; most of those statements have come out of his mouth at one time or another. Tears leak out of the corners of his eyes; hearing his words in someone else's mouth, he sees how selfish he's been, how young and naive and stupid. 

"Not stupid," Lilith says, motioning Wrath to come closer. "Never stupid. You _feel_ , Sam. Demons have always answered to chaos when angels are ruled by order. We are an emotional set of beings and you are our prince; you're the same as us in this. You _did_ hate your father. Parts of you still do just as parts of you are pleased to be released from the rules and regulations of the law, free to take your own brand of justice into your own hands." 

Wrath slides one palm over Sam's leg, up his thigh and over his hipbone, rests it on the curve of his ribs. "You should be proud of me," she says. At first, Sam thinks she's talking to him but when she goes on, he realises she's still parroting thoughts from his past. "If only you knew. I could kill you all and you'd never be able to stop me. But I don't. I won't. You should be thanking me. _I hate you all_." 

"You were born to rule," Lilith says. "They should have all been kneeling at your feet, thankful for their puny little lives and your munificence." 

Sam wants to nod but that would mean she's right. She is, though, he thinks. Isn't she? He _was_ born to rule; he's always felt like he was supposed to do more, be more, and Azazel confirmed it, Lilith's confirmed it, Sycorax has and Ruby has and even Pride, back on earth. He _could_ have killed them all -- the more time he spends in hell, the more he thinks it would be so easy -- and he didn't. They should be thankful, all of them, shouldn't they? No, that's wrong. Something in that, it's wrong. Dean wouldn't, Dean won't -- it's _wrong_. 

"I have never lied to you," Lilith says. Sam searches her eyes for deceit but finds none. "I will never lie to you, Sam, never. You were born to rule and you were imbued with the power. You were raised with full knowledge of us. When the rest of Azazel's children died, you were granted the crown, and when he died at the end of your brother's vengeance, you were granted the throne. They _owe_ you, Samuel. They owe you _everything_." 

That's. It sounds wrong but it makes too much sense. It. He has the power, he knows that, and the demons don't have any reason to lie to him about this. He shouldn't be here, he should have humans and demons alike kneeling to him, his father should be begging him for forgiveness and mercy, even from heaven, and Dean. Dean wouldn't do that, though, would he? Dean would never bend his knee, not even to Sam. 

_Dean_.

Sam screws his eyes shut, focusing on his brother. Dean's in Limbo. Dean's in Limbo and the only reason Sam's here is to save him. 

"You can't use him as a shield," Lilith murmurs. "That's too much of a weakness, Sam. You don't need to hide behind him like that, not anymore." 

Dean isn't that -- Sam's not using Dean. Sam's never wanted to use his brother. Dean would never let him. 

Sam shakes, shivering as his mind seems to divide, as Wrath is making his blood boil, making him break out into a cold sweat. "He'll never care about me," Wrath says. "I could _die_ for all that he cares. If I leave, maybe he'll realise. If I act like him, dress like him, talk like him, hunt like him, fuck like him, kill like him, maybe he'll notice me. What am I talking about, he never will. He's never seen me. He'll never see me, not even if I kill myself." 

"You've thought all of that," Lilith says. "So why should you cling to the idea of your brother here, surrounded by those of us who have _always_ seen you, even before your birth?" 

Wrath's touch is making Sam feverishly warm and the only thing cooling him is Lilith, her lips brushing over his cheek every time she talks, her hair sliding against the scabs on his scalp. He's too hot to think, doesn't know what he'd think if he could. 

"I'll kill them all," Wrath murmurs, as soft as Lilith even as her nails dig into Sam's chest and break his skin. Blood wells up in tiny drops; Wrath swipes a finger through them and then sucks her finger clean, eyes fixed on Sam's. "I know how." She pauses, then adds, "And they'll never see me coming." 

The words strike a resonance deep inside of Sam and he can feel something straining to break free and flood through him. Half of him wants to let it, wants to see what'll happen, but the other half is absolutely terrified. Dean wouldn't like it, he knows that like he knows -- not himself, because Lilith is tearing him apart little piece by little piece -- like he knows _Dean_.

Lilith sighs, waves Wrath away. "Very well, Samuel. If you're going to be stubborn, then we'll let you be stubborn. For now, at any rate. We'll see what, if anything, Pride has to say about it." 

Pride. Sam grimaces as Wrath leaves crescents of blood dotted all over Sam's chest, storming out of the room like she's absolutely furious. She probably is.

\--

Sam's not looking forward to Pride, especially not when he's already so off-balance, twisted out of his mind by Lilith, who is still sitting next to him, now running her fingers over his scalp. He doesn't have a choice, though, he knows that, knows this isn't going to be pleasant. It's not that he's been a prideful person, except he has; he's always thought of himself as one of the smartest people in whichever room he's in, one of the deadliest, one of the better-looking. He's arrogant and hates the ignorant even as he envies them and covets their ignorance for himself. He makes assumptions. He's the Boy King, the chosen heir of Azazel, psychic who killed the only competitor for the title. 

If Pride goes before destruction, before a fall, it's no wonder Sam's found himself in hell. 

"Ah," Lilith murmurs. "To think all that on your own. You've spent some time pondering your connection with the original sin, haven't you, Sam?" 

Of course he has. The first weeks after meeting Ruby, Sam could think of little else but her and the last words Pride said to him. The prodigy, the boy king. He's spent hours wondering what it meant, how he could use it. 

Lilith coos, still rubbing his scalp. "And then to come face-to-face with Pride, down here. That's half of why you let me place that collar around your neck, wasn't it? Because Pride was watching and you still have your own? Because you couldn't bear for Pride to see you beaten and cowed? And what about now, Sam? Do you fear what the echo of your soul will tell us?"

"Of course he doesn't," Pride says, stepping into the room. Sam opens his eyes, compares the form in front of him with the host on earth. He likes this one more. It suits Pride better, no surprise, really, as this is her true manifestation. Pride smiles, seeing Sam's study of her. She brushes a hand down one side and Sam's eyes follow the movement from the curve of Pride's breast to the swell of her hip, from graceful neck to shapely calf. "Because he knows it's all true. Hello, Lilith. Saving the best for last, are we?"

Pride's laugh makes Sam shiver, but the tone of Lilith's answer sends chills down his spine. "As always," Lilith replies, and she sounds warm, kind, affectionately amused. Lilith looks down at Sam, leans to kiss his forehead. Her knuckles stroke across his cheek. "Tell Sam," Lilith orders Pride, "what you mean by that." 

Pride smiles, lifts one hand. The hellfire floor mimics her movement, forming steps that go up. Pride steps on the first, then the second, and tells Sam, "I don't jump. Neither do I crawl." The ground moves to accommodate her and she walks around to the side of Sam's table, halfway up between the table's surface and the floor. Sam didn't know other demons could manipulate hell like that, like Lilith does. Pride, though, the original sin. That makes sense. He wonders, in a far distant corner of his mind not occupied with Pride, if she was responsible for Lilith's original decision to make hell her home. 

Clucking her tongue as if Sam's misbehaved, Pride perches on the edge of his table, faces him, one foot tucked under the other thigh, the other foot hanging off the table. She's gloriously naked; Sam can't take his eyes off of her. 

"You don't fear me, do you," she says, rather than asks. "Because you know you're my equal in all things, if not my better. I, though, am hard-pressed to consider _anyone_ above me. Which you also know. Funny how you can think of yourself in such a way, even tied down and stripped bare, wearing the signs of someone else's possession all over yourself. That amount of pride, Sam, makes me think I've done my job when it comes to you." She smiles, shifts to rest her weight on one hand, and purrs, "Tell me. Do you think it's beneath my dignity to suck your dick?"

Sam's eyes widen. That wasn't at all where he thought this was going. He tears his eyes away from Pride's, looks at Lilith. 

Lilith shakes her head. "Don't look at me, Sam. Pride has always understood you quite well on her own merits." 

Pride, who's still sitting there waiting for an answer. Sam looks at her, eyes narrowed, and thinks. Beneath her dignity? That would imply that cocksucking is something beneath dignity, worthy of disdain. He doesn't think that's true at all, even for Pride. Sex isn't something to be ashamed of and neither are wants and desires; Lust taught him that and Envy pinned the lesson to Sam's mind. If Pride wants to suck his dick, why should she be ashamed of that? Why should he? 

"Not even if it means I've implicitly accepted your power over me?" Pride asks. "To make me get on my knees would require nothing less, you and I both know that." 

Positions are power, then, in Pride's mind. Well, Sam's not exactly standing up at the moment, but he can see her point. If he'd be on his feet, she'd be on her knees, but he would be displaying a weakness just as important; no guy Sam's ever known likes to think about teeth and biting when their dick's in someone else's mouth. Beneath her dignity? Pride should be willing to accept Sam when she's not willing to accept many others. Sam's the boy king, Azazel's heir. If hell's general isn't good enough, who is? 

Pride, smiling, leans down, licks a stripe up one side of Sam's cock, down the other. "Not to mention," she adds, "you taste good. You usually don't look so bad, either. Do you know why Lilith mentioned echoing souls?" Pride asks, before going down on him in earnest. 

Sam can't think, not when she's sucking him like her life depends on it, but he tries to focus when she lets her teeth run up and down his shaft, reminding him what he'd just thought about teeth in relation to dicks. He focuses, thinks. Echoing souls. What Lilith said before -- Lust played with his physicality, Greed with his soul, Pride with his destiny -- that's important as well. Souls and destinies, and Pride understanding him; Sam gets it, then. Pride, the original sin, downfall of Satan, of Eve, in a sense, of Dean's desperate hope that his soul was worth Sam's life, of Sam for thinking he could survive hell. Pride's been there his whole life, closer than anyone, even Azazel, even Lust, even Lilith. 

But Pride doesn't understand him, not completely. Yes, he counted on Lilith accepting his counteroffer, and he knew he would find a way to save Dean's soul, but he had such _fear_ , such desperation. He asked for help, he worked hard to grab the chance he found even knowing what it would cost. 

"And yet you're the only one here," Pride murmurs, releasing his cock with a wet pop. "All alone, all at our mercy. To think we won't kill you, to think we won't harm you, such knowledge of your place among us, but such pride in using that. Has your pride taken a blow, giving yourself over to Lilith? The boy king at someone else's mercy?"

Of course not. Lilith is the queen. He would be foolish to think he could ever be more than she is. Sam looks at Pride, bares his teeth in a grin that threatens to split his face. Even though Lilith is above him, he is above Pride. Chained here, wearing Lilith's collar, he's still more than Pride, still better. No one else, not even Pride, would be worthy of Lilith's collar, of Lilith's attention, of the lessons Lilith's trying to teach him. No one else. Just him. 

Pride scowls, slides forward and captures Lilith's mouth in a kiss. Sam tilts his head to watch and the smile only grows bigger as Lilith fails to respond beyond a perfunctory return. Lilith kisses him better. Lilith's ridden him and whipped him and made him fuck her with his dick and his mouth and Lilith's put a sign of ownership on him, one she never had to, not without her own desire to see it there, on him, no one else but _him_.

Lilith pulls back, watches Pride, and then says, dry, "If you wish to make him give you pleasure, feel free. In any form," Lilith adds. 

Pride's eyes, narrowed, widen in surprise, then in glee. 

\--

She straddles Sam's face, makes him suck and nibble at her clit. She comes all over his face but doesn't stop there. With a whirl of heat and displaced air, Pride has suddenly gained a male form and he manipulates the hellfire ground, forms steps and finds the perfect height to fuck Sam's ass raw. He does that, then fucks Sam's mouth, then returns to her female form and rides him like it's going out of style. 

Pride spends three or four of Sam's eternities doing everything she can to humiliate him but Sam bears it all with a half-smile on his face. Lilith is still there and her collar is still around Sam's neck. Lilith finds this amusing, so Sam will undertake to deal with it for her sake. Lilith is pleased with him and Sam is happy to have pleased her.

When Pride finally steps back from the table, her breasts are heaving and her cheeks are flushed. Sam hasn't moved. "I know you're still there," Pride hisses, sounds bitter and furious. "You're too strong to've fled from that. Why the fuck didn't you fight me? Why did you just, why did you just _accept_ it?"

Lilith strokes Sam's brow, healing him. Her eyes are like a cool balm to his mind. "Sam knows that courage and cowardice are often two sides to the same coin. He has learnt, where you haven't, that pride and humility can be the same way."

"Are you saying he's more capable than I am?" Pride asks. Her hands are clenched into fists. "That he's more intelligent than I am?"

"Yes," Lilith says, meeting her glance. Sam sees Pride reel back as if Lilith's just punched her in the face. "You are your own destruction. I have told you that before and you never listen. Perhaps you will consider my words now, Pride, before you fall?"

Pride's lips thin and her nostrils flare. She nods once, jerkily, and Sam can only think that she still looks beautiful, that he understands her because he's been where she is now. It was a hard lesson to learn but it made him better, made him stronger. It will do the same for her. 

As if she can hear him, Pride's shoulders lose some of their rigidity. She studies Sam, then Lilith, and finally says, "By your leave, Lilith?" Lilith waves her away and Pride nods again, this time more thoughtfully. "You are an interesting personality, Sam Winchester," Pride says as she leaves. "I trust you'll remain that way."


	3. Chapter 3

Lilith moves, sits on the edge of the table much like Pride had done. "You've intrigued her, y'know. I don't know if that's good or not. Lucifer gained Pride's notice and we all know how that one ended. Still," she says, softer, "I find myself in the curious position of being intently and jealously possessive of you." She reaches up, strokes down Sam's chest. "I find I don't like sharing you, even with my Magnificent Seven. I want you all to myself."

She can have him. Sam wants to tell her that she can have all of him, for however long she wants. 

"Will you let me ride you, Sam? Will you let me take my pleasure from you?" She waits for an answer, patient, her hand settling on his hip, so close to his cock. He knows what she feels like deep inside and yet, and yet _this_ time she's asking. _This_ time, she waits. 

Sam holds his breath for an eternity, then nods. 

Lilith moves, climbing on top of him, kissing him lazily, bodies pressed flush against one another, hers lying on top of his. He wishes he had a tongue, to better please her, but he is at her mercy and if she is fine without his, then he won't wish any longer. They kiss and she strokes him everywhere she can touch; Sam wants to return the favour so desperately, but she is happy with him like this so he won't beg that of her. She slides around him, tight, almost too tight, and he wishes he could make it even better for her. She is satisfied, though, and so he merely gives her everything of him. 

"I want to peel you apart," Lilith murmurs. She sits up, gyrates, and the tight pressure of her cunt has Sam gasping. She leans forward, brushing her lips against his; when he tries to kiss her, she laughs, scrapes her nails a little bit deeper. "I want to cut you open and crawl inside you, close you up around me."

She moves again, tightens her muscles, and Sam cries out in a wordless plea for more. She's so _tight_ , so wet and hot and it feels so good. _She_ feels so good. 

Lilith reaches down, touches the place where she's wrapped around Sam, and nibbles at the skin stretched thin and tight over his cheekbone. "I want to sleep inside of you. I want to be _in_ you, Samuel. My little general. Will you let me? Will you let me slice you open? Will you let me see what makes you tick, from the smallest micron to the bones that hold you up? Will you be mine, Sam, and let me be yours?" 

Sam throws his head back as she comes. The pressure on his dick, it's so intense, so good after all of the pain, the best thing he's ever felt. She bites the collar around his throat, pulls at the o-ring and leads Sam's head closer, to rest on her shoulder. 

"Let me, Samuel," she murmurs, and, then, "Fuck me." 

Yes, Sam wants to say. He belongs to her. She can do anything to him and he'll let her. Of course he'll do anything for her. He surges upwards once, as far as the chains will allow him, searching for a way to get into her, closer and deeper, the way she's inside of him. She pulses around him, riding the force of his thrusts, and Sam wishes he had a tongue so that he can beg her for everything she wants. She's. Lilith is. He's.

"Mine," she says. "You belong to me, and no one else." 

Sam comes with a whimpered grunt, filling her. The smell of their sweat, their come, mixed with hellfire and burning blood, smoking bones, it's the best thing he's ever smelled. It's. There's another smell it reminds him of, come and sweat and smoke, he just can't place it. 

He searches, mind whirring as his body recovers; it bothers him, not knowing, even in this post-coital haze. He doesn't know why but he feels like he's forgotten something important. Something to do with Sycorax? When Sycorax used his teeth to rip off all the flesh on Sam's face, bite by bite? When War was prowling the room? When Lust brought everything that's been buried inside him for years to the surface? 

No, it's something from _before_ , as vague and fuzzy as that time is starting to become after the Seven. He searches, pries at everything he can, and then realises. 

Dean. Dean after he came back to motel room after motel room, reeking of sex and physical exertion and liquor. Dean, who's in Limbo. Dean, the soul Sam's down here to save. He's not here for Lilith, he's here for _Dean_. He's. Not Lilith? No. No, he came down here for Dean; it doesn't feel right but it's true. It has to be true. Doesn't it?

"Thinking of your brother again?" Lilith asks, getting off of him with a wet squelch. Her tone is sharp and flays the skin from his scalp. Blood spatters all over Sam's body. Lilith's unhappy. He's made her unhappy. And yet. Dean. How could he forget about Dean? "I thought you were over him, Sam. I thought we'd _finally_ gotten through to you." 

Sam shifts, dick itching where the come's drying. He closes his eyes, cheeks stained red. He can't believe he forgot about Dean. 

For one moment, Sam thinks of Dean, everything Dean is to Sam, all of Dean's strengths and weaknesses, all of Dean's loves and hates. He holds Dean in his mind, clear as crystal, larger than life and more all-encompassing than the pain of hell. 

And then Lilith drives a dagger into Sam's heart. 

He gasps for breath, eyes flying open, fighting the chains tying his wrists to try and stop her. The pain is so _familiar_ , even as he's dying, vision fuzzing out. Jake, he realises, though that was to the back. Jess, but there was no real physical _thing_ sticking out of his chest, no Lilith there actually driving the point down as far as it will go. Dean, when Sam realised that his brother had sold himself, for something like _Sam_.

"Mine," Lilith snarls. "You belong to _me_. Not him. Not some measly _human_ , brother or not. You are better than him. You are more than he will ever be." Sam shudders, breath rattling in his chest, and as Lilith holds the knife in place with one hand, the other wraps over the collar, around Sam's throat. Her touch heals him, gives him a fresh new heart. The dagger doesn't come out. 

"Tell me you're mine, Sam," she orders. "Tell me you don't want him, not anymore. _Tell me_."

Sam shakes his head, thrashing from side to side. He won't look at her. He won't look at her and he'll think of Dean. He won't look at her and he'll think of Dean and this will all be over soon. Only a few more eternities and then he'll see Dean, then Dean will be safe and Sam will be gone and he'll never need to talk to Lilith ever again. He won't look at her. He won't look at her. He'll think of Dean. 

Lilith snorts, takes the dagger out. It hurts as much as it did when she thrust it inside of him. "Fine. You don't want to do this the easy way? We won't. I had hoped to avoid this, Sam. You were so _close_. Just remember, you brought it on yourself." 

\--

She calls for Sycorax. Once the other demon appears, Lilith says, "Get it ready. We're running out of time and I want it done before he leaves. I want it _all_. He's only leaving here if he's ours, all of ours." 

Sam watches, one eyebrow raised, as Sycorax pauses. The demon looks, he looks like he wants to argue, but that can't be right. Can it? Sycorax's eyes flick to Sam. "Lilith, can we not," he starts to say, but stops when the ground underneath her bursts into flames, burning coals blowing up and scattering the room. Some pieces land on Sam; he bites through his lip rather than scream because attracting Lilith's attention at this point would be deadly. 

"Get. It. Ready." She's furious, barely holding herself in check. 

Sam's not surprised when Sycorax bows his head, and says, quietly, "Thy will, Lilith."

\--

Sycorax leaves. Lilith does as well, a minute or an hour or another one of Sam's eternities later. The room he's in is silent. So is the rest of hell. 

Sam remembers the word he spoke in order to bargain with Lilith. He'll never tell Dean what the word was, how to say it or where he found it or even why Sam can speak it and have it mean something. It's not just out of some fear that Dean will eventually use the word himself -- there's no way heaven or hell would acknowledge Dean's attempt -- but a much more selfish reason: Dean already calls him so many names and Sam doesn't want 'Aslan' to join the bunch. 

That one word is the only reason he knows what's coming. C.S. Lewis turned Christ into a lion and had the White Witch sacrifice him on a stone table. Laws older than time, they'd both said, and a variety of demons have said much the same to Sam here, in hell. Sam's been chained to stone almost since he arrived and Lilith has never had much use for metaphors. Sam's not a lion and what was good enough to redeem humanity from hell will be good enough to do the same for Dean. 

Hell is quiet because they're getting ready to invoke the Passion, this time amongst themselves, not bothering with the effort it takes to twist humans into puppet performers. The demons, they're putting together a cross and they're going to nail Sam to it. 

He only wonders which of the demons will play Simon of Cyrene, and which Veronica. 

\--

Quiet. Everything is quiet, even the suicides from the seventh level. All of hell is holding its breath. Sam finds he's holding his own and forcefully exhales. Lilith had said time is running out. Survive this and he'll be done. He can do that. He's made it this far, this long, and he can survive this. He _can_.

It's so quiet, though. Not one noise. Not anything. 

He can feel his mind start to bend under the pressure of the silence combined with everything he's done and felt and been subjected to over the past few days, but he stops himself, draws the ruins of himself together. Survive this, save Dean. He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, and feels the collar tight around his throat. Lilith would have taken it off if she'd rescinded her claim to him and called off the bargain. She still wants him, even though she's so furious. He hasn't displeased her beyond the boundaries of her favour. She still wants him and he still has the chance to save Dean. 

He made it through the sex and the torture. He made it through the four horsemen and the seven deadly sins.

He can make it through the quiet. 

Just a little longer.

\--

Lilith steps into the room. Sam flinches at the sudden noise, but gathers himself, looks at her. "You know what's coming," she says. It isn't a question but Sam still nods in answer. "Repudiate him and I won't force you through this. Promise yourself to me and I'll unlock your power without it. Sam. You can save him and still save yourself. All you have to do is forget about him for five minutes and give yourself over to me, completely and utterly. That's not so difficult, is it?" 

She sounds so distraught, as if only the cold impartiality of her words is keeping her from begging. Lilith doesn't beg, she isn't supposed to. It's beneath her to beg, especially to beg someone who wears her collar, who she knows down to every molecule. It's beneath her and Sam has no tongue to tell her that. 

He shakes his head and hears her sigh. 

"Very well," she says. He's surprised -- and yet not -- to see tears glisten in her eyes, to see the floor shiver beneath her feet. She calls for Sycorax and Wrath. 

The two demons enter, don't need directions. Sycorax unchains Sam's wrists and ankles, pulls him upright, and Wrath grabs hold of his arms before Sam can fall, not at all used to this position. He gets pins-and-needles in his wrists, his ankles. He finds he misses the constriction of the chains. They, at least, were constant. As Wrath holds him steady, Sycorax pulls Sam's arms and ties them above his head, to a long and thorny rope hanging from the ceiling. When Sycorax nods, Wrath lets go; Sam sways and his knees buckle. He whimpers at the pull of rope on his arms, yanking one shoulder out of place, but doesn't scream. This is nothing compared to what he knows is coming. 

Sycorax moves to stand next to Lilith while Wrath heads for the rack of whips and floggers. Sam can see Wrath out of the corner of his eye; he doesn't move his gaze from Lilith. Strange, but he doesn't remember the abuse Christ suffered at the hands of the Romans being the first step of the Passion. There should have been an anointing first, dinner, and then prayer in a garden, someone betraying him with a kiss, Peter cutting off the ear of a soldier. The thought of Lilith acting as the Sanhedrin, though, that's enough to give Sam cause for amusement. 

Small lines appear at the edges of Lilith's eyes. "You betrayed yourself, Sam, and you've had your time to pray. It's not my fault if you've spent it all thinking of _Dean_." She holds Sam's gaze in challenge and Sam holds hers in acknowledgment. Wrath picks up a cat-o-nine-tails, the one tipped with hellfire glass and near-molten silver, and whips it at the table Sam has spent most of his stay chained to. The table shatters and pieces of glassy hellfire pepper Sam's skin like gravel, tearing and cutting him. 

Lilith watches, watches as Wrath advances, watches as Wrath tears Sam's back to shreds. She stands there, arms crossed on her chest. She won't heal him, not this time, not with the mass of demons waiting for him outside. 

This time, Sam thinks he might actually die.

\--

When he's dizzy from blood loss, is missing half the skin over his back and chest, Wrath cuts his wrists free from the ropes and pushes him forward. Thirty-nine lashes and he counted every one. Sam collapses, falling to his knees in front of Lilith. 

"Bring him," she orders, and turns, steps away from him. Sam almost reaches out to her, for her, and she pauses, crossing the threshold, waiting. He controls himself, restrains himself, and so does she; she walks out, head held high. Wrath takes him by one arm, Sycorax by the other, and they drag him out, throw him at Lilith's feet, in front of her throne. Sam chances a look up and around; demons line the edges of their individual circles, all of them looking down and watching, malicious smiles on their faces. Some of them are licking their lips, look him over hungrily, and Sam shivers, gets goosebumps. He lets his gaze drop, focus on Lilith's feet. 

"Unlike my predecessor," she begins, all of hell falling silent at her words as they ring out across the expanse of their circles, "I will not wash my hands of his fate. What say you, my children: do we crucify him or do we find his sacrifice unworthy? Will you accept him in place of his brother? Will you accept him as ours?"

Hell breaks out into noise. Sam flinches and doesn't look up. Lilith lets the demons yell and taunt for endless minutes, then holds up one hand. Silence falls immediately; Sam finds himself inexplicably impressed with her level of control. 

She crooks her finger and Sam watches as Death slides to the front dais, waves of demons parting in front of it. "What says the crowd?" she asks, opening her hands. "Death or mercy?" 

Death tilts its skull. "My lady," it says, "they cry my name." Sam's head is ringing and yet he hears Death's words. "Lilith, queen of hell, your people cry 'crucify.' They will accept no other result. His sacrifice is well and good with them, and he will serve us." 

Lilith inclines her head and holds out one hand. Sycorax is standing there, carefully holding a crown of thorns. He sets it on Lilith's palm without a word. Lilith looks down at Sam, caresses his cheek with her other hand, and says, "These thorns were picked from the suicides of the seventh level and woven by the heretics of the sixth. They will hurt, Samuel. There is no going back from here. This is the last time I will ask: are you wedded to this path?" 

Sam nods, once. With all of hell watching and laughing, Lilith takes the crown of thorns in both hands and places it carefully on Sam's scalp. He takes a deep breath and rides out the waves of pain when she screws it on tight, thorns digging in and ripping his head to shreds that match the rest of him. Blood drips in his eyes, stings; blood drips into his mouth. He swallows and looks at Lilith. 

She stands up, dismissing him from her sight, and calls out, "I leave Sycorax as my right hand. Follow him, my children, and let's crucify our wayward saviour." 

Cheers ring out at her words and the demons swarm her when she steps into their crowd. Sam is still on his knees, back to the crowd of demons. Judged, beaten, condemned -- he's only one Station in.

\--

A clan of small and creeping imps drags a cross closer and Wrath fondles a whip she'd taken from Sycorax's collection. Sam doesn't need instructions even though this is a full cross made out of yew, he thinks, and not just the crossbeam. He almost opens his mouth as if to ask how he's supposed to carry this, but he catches himself in time, merely lets out a shaky sigh. He stands, wavers on his feet, almost falls but catches himself at the last minute. The imps all take the opportunity to kick at him while he's maneuvering the weight of the cross on to his back and Sam nearly loses his balance again. 

The sting of the whip is expected but still hurts; he hears the crack well before he feels the pain and reels under it. "This way," Sycorax orders. The demon sounds so different from what Sam's come to expect. "And don't slow down or you'll taste Wrath's whip again." 

Sam doesn't dignify that with an answer. He'll feel the whip again, hurrying or not.

\--

The cross weighs heavy on his back, splinters catching on the fragments of skin stubbornly clinging to him, wood rubbing against the wounds like saltwater. He trips halfway through Cain's home in the ninth circle but catches his balance; when he falls again, Wrath whips him hard. The demons near to Sam cry out in triumph as they get spattered with blood and pieces of skin, faint slivers of bone; one of them gets covered and then goes down under a pile when the others jump on it to lick off the blood. 

Sam stands up with the weight of the cross pushing him down; he looks up, focuses his eyes on the clear path between throngs of demons. He sees Lilith. He runs through the Stations of the Cross in his mind, can't help the smile. Of course: after the condemnation, after receiving the cross and falling under its weight, the saviour sees his mother. Sam gets moving again as best he can, slow and stumbling, whipped at every turn. He keeps his eyes on Lilith and pauses in front of her when he gets to where she's standing, readjusts the weight of the cross on his shoulders. 

She reaches out, a movement that stops short before her hand can connect with Sam's cheek. He looks at her, studies her, and the disbelief falls off of his features. She wants to help him. Despite the fact that she sentenced him to this, she wants it all to stop. If she could make it stop and still win, she would.

"You brought this on yourself," she murmurs. Sam can hear her through the roaring crowds just fine. "I gave you the choice. You infuriate me, Samuel, but that does not mean I wanted _this_ for you."

He gives her a weak smile, all the more because he can see truth written all over her face. She is being entirely honest with him. He chose this, not her. She tried to talk him out of it. She promised him he wouldn't have to go through with his and set terms that weren't unreasonable. Sam is here because of his stubborn recalcitrance. He's here because of his pride, when she offered him mercy. He's here because of Dean and because Lilith will never accept that Sam will go through anything and everything for the sake of his brother's redemption from hell.

"My beautiful baby," she murmurs. "Oh, _Sam_." 

His smile turns pained. Tears slip from the corners of his eyes for the first time since he rose from the table. This time, when Lilith reaches out, Sam doesn't flinch. Neither does she. 

\--

He gets to the boundary of the eighth and ninth circles before he stumbles and nearly goes down. Wrath whips him and Sycorax, walking on the other side, looks out over the crowd of demons, the air around him roiling with impatience. Before he can say anything, Pride steps out into their path, Pride in all of her naked glory. 

"I'll play the part," she says, chin held high. "No one else is good enough." Sam smiles. He should have known. Sycorax inclines his head and Pride strides over, readjusts the cross, and splits the burden with Sam. "Now, shall we?"

The pain circling through his body, the surreality of Pride stooping to carry a cross, it has Sam light-headed, dizzy, and ready to laugh. He doesn't, though, not even in hysteric desperation. Instead, blood drips from the crown of thorns into his face, and he shakes his head, trying to dispel the drops clinging to his eyelashes like tears. He can't see, he doesn't know where he's going, and Wrath keeps whipping him, Pride next to him, bowed but not broken. 

A different demon steps out of the crowd, holding a cloth. She drops to one knee, wipes Sam's face, leans forward to place a gentle kiss on his lips. Lust pats his cheek, stands and disappears back into the throng of demons. Pride as Simon, Lust as Veronica -- the irony of hell is enough to make Sam throw back his head and plead for heaven's mercy. 

He finds himself weeping as he keeps his feet moving, the cross growing heavier with every step he takes. He falls again in the sixth circle and Pride grunts as the full weight of the cross falls on her shoulders. The daughters of Jerusalem mentioned in Luke become slothful spirits in the River Styx; he knows he's supposed to say something to them but he has no tongue and, he thinks, his voice won't work anyway. 

It's Pride, instead, who scornfully tells them, "You'll wish you had the energy and motivation to see this. This is only the beginning." 

\--

Sam makes it to the second circle before he falls the third time. When he goes down, he hears one bone in his leg crack. Wrath whips the ache of that out of him, gives him a new and deeper pain with every lash of the whip. Pride turns and hisses at the other deadly sin, but Wrath merely strikes her once. The whip lands on Pride's shoulder, opens up one thin line of skin. Blood seeps out and Pride shudders under the sting, feeling it, Sam thinks, for the first time.

"Come on," Pride tells him, shaking it off and healing almost immediately. "Almost there. Let's get you to your Golgotha and hammer in the nails, shall we? We don't want to be late." 

\--

Lilith is waiting for them. At the exact same place she stood and placed her collar on Sam, before leading him into the depths of hell, she stands and points in front of her. "Upright, there," she orders. "And we thank Pride for her service." Pride helps Sam place the cross on the ground, nods at Lilith, and steps backwards, into the crowd. Demons stare at her, awed, a little scared. 

Sam kneels at the foot of the cross, gasping for breath, feeling the absence of the weight on his back a pressure he almost misses. Wrath and Sycorax wrangle him on to the wood while Lilith watches and while hell laughs. 

"Already naked," Wrath murmurs. She ties Sam's right wrist down while Sycorax wraps rope around the left wrist, then Sam's ankles. "Less time to waste. Don't know why we didn't think of that the first time. Still, humans can be such prude traditionalists." 

Wrath picks up a hammer and long, rusted spikes, fondling the nails. Her eyes are fixed on Sam, filled with a furious, insane joy. Sam holds the gaze for as long as he can but eventually has to close his eyes. He doesn't hold back his screams as they nail him to the cross. Spikes through his wrists, then through his ankles, tearing the skin and breaking the bones without regard for Sam's survival. 

Sycorax and Wrath each grab one side of the cross and lift it. Sam wails; the nails hold him to the wood as it shakes, gets dropped into place, but they pull on his skin, tear muscle and dig into bone. Sycorax cuts the rope and lets Sam hang his body weight on nothing but the nails for the first time. He almost blacks out right then.

Agony. Sheer, total, undiluted agony. 

\--

Sam doesn't know how long he hangs there, how long it takes before a scurrying little demon is shoving a sponge soaked in blood at Sam's mouth, as another one reaches with a wooden spear and pierces the skin open on Sam's side, sending blood rushing out. A different one sashays forward with a smirk and breaks Sam's right knee.

Sam groans, muscles tensing before they give. He slides on the spikes, howls in pain, and scrambles for better purchase, broken knee protesting. His entire body is one mass of throbbing hurt, tips of his toes to the top of his head, and he can't breathe no matter how much he pulls himself up. Sam tries to remember what he knows of crucifixion, hyper-tension of the lungs, the inability to breathe, but his mind starts to go fuzzy. 

He decides not to think at all and focuses on Lilith. She looks as if she's waiting for something; what that is, Sam doesn't know, not until he blinks, dizzy and close to death. He can almost see -- no. He shakes his head, ignoring the way the movement pushes the thorns deeper in his skull, pulls at his wrists, and squeezes his eyes closed. When he opens them again, he wishes he had a tongue so that he could cry out to God. 

Two different impressions of reality greet his sight. On the surface, the crowds of demons are watching, taunting him, Lilith at the head of the crowd, arms crossed on her chest, waiting for him to die. Underneath, though, something very strange: each demon is a writhing black cloud, the kind he's seen on earth after exorcisms, and they have strands coming out from the middle of them, like thin threads that creep closer to Sam with every second he hangs there. Fire in the background, and Sam doesn't know if that's real or not, but the false sky of hell clouds over and cracks with lightning. 

"Now he sees! Now we have our flesh and blood," Lilith cries out. "Our own communion, partaking in the sacrifice of our redeemer!" She has a knife in her hand, and a goblet in the other. Sam doesn't remember them but he's having trouble seeing, thinking, breathing. He's dying, that would explain the double vision. Lilith won't save him, he knows that. That's the only thing he knows, apart from how numb he's beginning to turn. He doesn't know what's happening, not at all, not anymore. 

Lilith steps forward and slices Sam's calf open. He arches in pain, cries out in more pain when his movement pulls on the spikes in his wrists and feet. The blood drains into the goblet and Lilith lifts it, drinks Sam's blood down. He can see her grinning at him with blood-stained teeth, but he can also see the thread from her stretch out, unerringly come in his direction. As she uses the knife to slice some of his flesh off, eats it down, the thread connects with his skin and burrows deeper. 

He doesn't know what it's doing, what it's looking for, but then it connects to him like an electric shock, making his sluggish heart skip a precious beat. Sam sees black spots in the edges of his vision and then gasps, feeling _Lilith_ inside of him, everything she ever was, that she is now, that she has the potential to be. He _knows_ her, down to the very core of her creation. He's tied to her, now, in some way that he can't try to parse before Sycorax is repeating her ritual, cutting off a different piece of flesh, drinking blood, and after his heart skips another beat, Sam is connected to Sycorax as well. 

His mind reels in protest as Pride follows, then Lust, then the other deadly sins, then the four horsemen, then every other demon. He's screaming, a continuous note of animal pain broken only by great big gaping breaths of air that don't fill his lungs, don't do anything to ease the agony. With every demon that takes communion of his flesh and blood, his heart skips a beat, until it seems like the beats are coming further and further apart, weaker and weaker. 

Sam can't feel his feet or his fingers; whether that's lack of oxygen, blood loss, or the nails, he doesn't know and doesn't care. He's close to delirious, missing chunks of flesh from all over his body, and now he's connected to every demon in hell. The masses of black clouds, darker than night, are all part of him. Sam starts to weep. He hangs his head in resignation and understanding and nearly chokes in surprise when he sees that there is a black cloud hanging around him, one that is reaching out to each of those connections, one that says he's a son of Azazel and contains the pedigree needed to rule hell. He shouldn't be surprised. He's always known he belongs here, even before he died in Cold Oak.

Sam's vision blurs, then fails completely. He begs forgiveness from his father, from Dean; he's failed, he's failed so miserably. 

Lilith says, "It is finished." 

Sam's heart finally gives out. 

\--

He's dead. 

His body is dead and yet his mind is free and floating large and larger than anything he's ever felt before. He can see all of hell spread out beneath him, around him, even above him, and he suddenly understands. He's a part of everything here, all of the demons, all of the rivers and chunks of hail and ice, all of the acid and whips. Psychic, yes, but more than that. Psychic, and Sam's known it. He's always known he's different, but now he knows _why_ , now everything in hell and that hell claims as its own is unlocked to him. It's like every switch inside of him has been thrown to a different position, one that fits and feels so much better, and part of that is being connected to everything, but part of it is his own power, his own gifts and talents and skills and curses, all open to him now that he's not constrained to one body. 

It takes Sam an eternity to realise that he's _dead_ and that was in no way part of the bargain. 

He shares a mind with Lilith and can feel her intent as it changes within her. She steps up to his dead body and touches him. With a sudden jerk, his heart is healed and his soul is called back into his broken and wasted body. 

Sam gasps in pain, breath flooding in to his lungs. He struggles to understand what's going on, to reconcile everything, but he knows without thought that there won't be mercy, not when every demon is watching him, from the lowliest imp to Sycorax, standing at Lilith's elbow. Even as he's thinking about what it all _means_ , he doesn't expect anything except what happens: Lilith reaches with her power, yanks at Sam's body, and pulls him off of the cross, flesh and bones sliding over the nails with wet, snapping noises. She holds him there, levitated in front of the cross, arms still held out to his sides, and then draws her power back. 

Sam falls into a heap, thorns on his head digging in to his brain, more pieces of skin falling off of his lacerated back, his other knee breaking with the impact of the fall. He waits there, motionless, trying to reconcile the width and breadth of his mind and talents, discovered in his death, with the limitations of his physical body now that he's been resurrected. 

Lilith drops to her knees, crawls over and picks Sam up gently, cradling him in her arms. "You understand," she says. If Sam looks at her a certain way, past her physical manifestation, he can see the black cloud of her demonic personality, the way it's attached to him, twisting and twining with his own. He nods. It's all clear to him now; he'd known before, in an academic way, but this, this goes deeper. Lilith traces his jaw with one finger and Sam gags as his tongue grows back, slow and sluggish, resting heavy in his mouth. "Then stay with us. Stay and rule, Samuel. You are our general, our little prince. Stay here, with me. We understand you. We can give you what you want. We can take everything, we will give everything. Stay."

In this moment, this one terrifying moment, an eternity hanging on the brink of a million more, Sam _actually_ considers it. 

He could rule them -- he knows them now, knows each and every single one of them, what makes them tick, why they're here, what they crave. He could stay and rule over them, guide them, guard them, and keep them, and they'd do the same for him in return. They would do anything for him if he were king. They'd do anything now, all of hell's collective breath held as Lilith cradles him like his mother and lover and sister and daughter all rolled into one.

All he has to do is nod. Sam dips his head down, but not up. Lilith is waiting. Sycorax is waiting. All of hell is waiting. 

And so is Dean, trapped in Limbo. Even his newfound knowledge can't make him forget that. That's the only reason he went through with it, after all. 

His tongue in his mouth feels foreign and alien, heavy, almost choking him like the way its absence did when Sycorax ripped it out. "I can't," Sam says. Tear-tracks dry on his face and one of the thorns digs in a little deeper. "I _can't_."

Sycorax clicks his tongue. "Can't does not mean won't, Sam," he says. Sam can't move to look but doesn't need eyes to know what kind of smile is curving across the demon's mouth. "We've talked about this before. Is it a question of possibility or will?"

Lilith's fingers are so light on his forehead. Her touch is so deft as she leans down to kiss him, to lick up a trail of dried blood from his cheek. She burns him; before, he would have flinched. Now, after a thousand eternities in hell, bent and broken for hell's purpose, for Lilith's amusement and Sycorax's play, for his own destiny, Sam sighs and leans into her. His lips purse, seeking her skin to press against. She understands him. She always has, better than anyone else. 

Better than Dean.

"Of will," Sam says, coughing on the words. He spits, tastes blood on his teeth. His gums ache after hours of needleplay but he knows without touch that they're healed. Having his teeth whole is fact enough to know that. "I want Dean." 

This time, Sam opens his eyes to see Sycorax's smile. It glitters on the demon's face, and while the demon's eyes are cold, calculating, the smile is warm and affectionate. "No, you don't. But you'll learn that in time."

Lilith breathes on Sam. The thorns melt away, his wounds close up. His body is healed and whole but his mind, his heart, his soul, will never recover. No demon's touch can do that much. "My traitorous general," Lilith murmurs. When she kisses his lips, she tastes of death. Still, Sam can't resist her. "My darling little Sam."

\--

Sycorax pulls him up, stays there and steadies him when Sam wavers on his feet, too unused to standing, to having every bit of his body in good and working condition. They dress him in leather, demons swirling around him, crawling up to him on their bellies from every inch of hell, and Lilith touches his hair, makes it grow long again. Sam lifts a hand with caution, watching them, studying his fingernails, brushing hair out of his eyes. That's going to take some getting used to. 

Lilith reaches for him and Sam pauses mid-motion, waits for her and on her, so used to subsuming his will in her own. She gives him a sad, tired smile, and lets her fingers glide over the front buckle of his collar. 

Sam had almost forgotten he'd been wearing it, feels his heart race with sick anticipation. "What," he says, voice rusty, broken. "What are you doing? Lilith." 

"You have to leave this behind," she says. "If you leave, you cannot take this with you." 

Sam closes his eyes as her fingers slide under the collar, stroking his skin. He wants to beg, wants to promise her anything in exchange for this _thing_ that marks him as hers, but he knows it won't do any good. There are laws governing hell, laws deeper and older than the power Sam has at his command now. 

He ducks his head, lets her undo the four buckles, one in each cardinal direction, and feels panic sweep over him when she moves it away, when there's nothing left of hell on him. He hyperventilates, can't help it, and drops to his knees in supplication. Lilith wraps her hands in his hair, pulls hard enough for Sam to feel it. 

"You can stay," she whispers, leaning down to talk directly into his ear. "If you stay, I will put it back. You can have anything from any of us if you stay, Sam, even the ones I'm going to send back to earth. If you stay, I will change _everything_ for you." 

The words are on the tip of his tongue but Sam needs to see Dean, needs to see that Dean is all right, to make sure with his own eyes and hands that his brother's soul has been redeemed. 

"'Those who restrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained,'" he says, quoting Blake in a quiet whisper. A wave of hushed murmuring spreads outwards like a wave. Sam looks up at Lilith and sees Sycorax nodding at him, sees the Magnificent Seven behind the queen and her chief torturer, all of them approving, all of them pleased. Sam locks eyes with Pride, nods off Lilith's hands and stands up, clenches his hands into fists to keep them from trembling. "I'd like to see my brother now, if you're satisfied that our bargain has been fulfilled." 

Lilith nods, holds out one hand. "Come on, then, my little prince. Let us go find the man who made you our saviour." 

Sam takes her hand, bends and kisses her knuckles, and says, voice husky, "Queen."

\--

This time, when Lilith rips the veil between worlds, it doesn't hurt. Sam can see how she does it, thinks of _Dogma_ and hockey sticks; it's not exactly the same but it is closer than Sam would have thought. Lilith steps through the crack first, clearly expecting Sam to follow. He does, taking a careful look at the rent in the separation, memorising how it feels, how it acts, so that he can do the same, someday, if he needs to. He tries not to look back at hell but he does, can't stop himself. Pride is watching him with her chin held high and Lust is crying, Death is watching with clinical objectivity. When Conquest blows Sam a kiss, Sam turns, follows Lilith with his shoulders tight and his back straight.

Sycorax steps through behind him and Lilith snaps her fingers, closing the tear. Sam watches it sew back together and then turns, looks around him. This Limbo -- it's cold, dark, feels empty even though it's filled with souls for as much of it as Sam can see. He feels his heart sink, knowing Dean's been trapped in this place for three days, but, then again, Limbo is better than hell. Cold and empty is better than tortured and raped any day of the week. 

"Where is he?" Sam asks. The sound of his voice doesn't travel very far outside of a certain range; Sycorax and Lilith can hear him but the sound doesn't go any further beyond them. "I don't. Lilith?" 

"Oh, don't worry," Lilith replies, brushing Sam's arm. The touch calms him, even outside of hell. "She brought him here. You can't feel him?" 

Sam frowns, closes his eyes and extends his senses. It's the first time, he doesn't have perfect control over it and the wave of his search bursts out of him in an uncontrolled flux. He stumbles with the power of it and hears Sycorax laugh, feels Lilith sigh. Still, he's always been a quick learner. Better than that, there's something, some person, that rings with an echo that could only be Dean. 

"There," Sam says, and takes off through Limbo. Souls part like water parted before Moses, like demons part before Lilith, and Sam doesn't care, not when he has his eyes set on Dean. 

Lilith passes him in a blur, some kind of demonic action that makes Sam's eardrums vibrate, and she stands between Sam and Dean. "This is your brother," she says, to which of them, Sam's not sure, and steps to one side, forming the apex of a triangle between the three of them. "The bargain has been fulfilled. I find myself satisfied with the result." Sam stares at Dean, casts his eyes up and down his brother's body, tries to ignore the things that Lust has dredged up out of him to focus on how Dean looks, how Dean feels. 

"Took you long enough," Dean says, looking Sam over in the same way. "I thought you said three days, not three goddamn years. Can we get out of here now?" 

Sam swallows, licks his lips. Dean's not, Dean sounds fine. And if Sam wilts under Dean's tone, still furious, now on edge from three days of complete sensory isolation, Dean won't be able to see it. Sam looks at Lilith, who _can_ see in the pitch black, and watches as she raises an eyebrow. He knows what it means, knows she's checking to make sure he still wants to go back to earth now that he knows Dean's safe. 

Sam nods. 

"If you're ready, then," Lilith says. She sounds dry to the ears but Sam can hear the demon's tone underneath, feels it like a scalpel on his teeth. Not good, and it's worse when Lilith rents the veil again, pulls Sam and Dean out on to earth, the same crossroads where Sam bargained, three days ago. The Impala is still sitting to one side of the road where Dean had parked it. "There. Happy now, Dean?" 

Dean scowls at her, doesn't look at Sam before he's turning away and heading for the car. "Sam, let's go," he says, and takes five steps before he stops, looks behind him. 

Sam hasn't moved, is staring at his brother and Lilith, alternating between the two. He doesn't know if Dean's angry at him, still, and how long it'll last before he worries about what Sam might have gone through; in the same way, he doesn't know if Lilith will actually let him leave, worrying about what Sam might go through at Dean's side on earth. 

Sycorax comes up next to Sam and, with Dean watching, slings an arm around Sam's shoulders. Sam doesn't flinch but he doesn't lean into the touch, either. Dean's eyes narrow and he takes one step back towards the three of them, just enough to see clearly when Sycorax leans over, takes Sam's earlobe between his teeth. Dean growls, eyes narrowed to slits when Sam can't stop himself from unwinding, relaxing. 

"Sam," Dean says, tone sharp but nothing compared to Lilith's. "We're going. Come on." 

"Oh, before I can say goodbye?" Lilith asks. She's purring beneath the words and Sam sees Dean swallow, hand straying for a gun that isn't there. "Don't deny me a farewell, Dean Winchester. I do so hate to be denied." 

Dean snorts, eyes flicking away for a split-second before they rest on Lilith. "I'll deny you whatever you want, bitch," he growls. "You're not getting anything more from Sam." He looks at Sam, then, and Sam can see fear buried beneath the anger in Dean's eyes. "Sam? _Now_ would be a good time. I don't want that bitch and her lap-dog changing their minds anytime soon." 

Lilith puts one hand over her heart, head tilted to the side. "You wound me, Dean. As if I'd renege on a bargain fulfilled. As if I _could_ , even if I wanted to." She turns from Dean, as if he's no longer worthy of her attention, and curves one hand up to Sam's neck, underneath his hair. "I've missed this, I'll admit," she murmurs. "But the shaving was a glorious way to begin your sojourn with us." 

Dean inhales sharply but Lilith doesn't turn to look at him and Sam doesn't lift his eyes from his queen's. Lilith pulls Sam's head down for a kiss and Sam lets her, kisses her back and uses his tongue, now that he has it again. He melts against her and reels when Dean pulls her away, flinging her away from Sam. 

"What was that?" he asks, though he's asking _Sam_. "Three days of fucking in exchange for my soul? Never thought it was worth much but that's going a little far, Sammy. And you," he adds, turning to Lilith. "If I ever see you again." 

"You won't," she says, cutting him off. Her eyes are brimming with hellfire. "Not for a while. But Sam. Oh, my glorious Samuel." She smiles, looking at Dean, and tells him, "The only reason I've left you alive for so long was what you could do for me. You have always been Sam's weakness and now I've capitalised on that. Die young, die old, it doesn't matter to me, Dean Winchester. You've served your purpose." 

Dean's face is white, though Sam isn't sure whether it's fury or fear. Fury now, face-to-face with Lilith, fear later when he starts to think about what Lilith means. "Go back to hell," he snarls. "And leave my brother alone." 

Lilith laughs and lifts a hand. Sam winces as the boundary between hell and earth is broken, closes his eyes in pain as Lilith and Sycorax step through, repair the breach. 

She's gone. Lilith has left him. Sam lifts a hand, feels the naked skin of his throat, blows bangs out of his eyes, and bites down on his tongue. This is all so foreign. This all feels so wrong. 

Dean stares, takes in the leather, the untouched skin, the shaggy hair, and shakes his head. "We're leaving," he says. " _Now_." 

Sam doesn't have a problem with that. Anything to get away from the crossroads and the way it feels. Anything to get away from the place where Lilith left him. Anything to start moving on. He walks to the car, lets his fingers glide along the cool metal of the Impala's body, marvelling at the way it feels under his fingertips, like nothing in hell. He sits down, pulls up his knees, and it feels like sitting on a cloud. 

Dean sits next to him, in the driver's seat, and doesn't say anything. Sam doesn't either. After five minutes, Dean says, "I think we've earned the Grand Canyon." 

Sam nods and when Dean starts to get tired, the last few weeks before his stay in Limbo catching up with him, he pulls over and they switch seats. Dean sleeps and Sam drives. 

Sam's eyes are dry. His skin feels too tight. 

\--

They call Bobby -- rather, Dean calls Bobby. Sam's voice is still hoarse; he doesn't know what Dean thinks the cause is and, he finds, he doesn't care. He's been back for hours and he still feels _wrong_ , like this isn't where he belongs, like he isn't doing what he's supposed to be doing. It all feels different, stretched too thin in too many directions, crushed under the weight of two families, two responsibilities, two destinies. 

Dean turns up his cell phone loud enough so that Sam can hear what Bobby says, and their surrogate uncle's response to Dean's "Hey, Bobby," has Sam ducking his head and grinning in spite of the urge to get out of the car and run away as fast as he can, maybe even teleport. He knows how to do that, now. 

"What the hell have you two boys done?" Bobby asks, almost immediately. "Sam? What did you _do_?" 

Dean glances at him, says, "He found a way, Bobby. Just leave it at that, all right?" 

Sam gets that Dean won't tell anyone else until they're both ready, until Sam's told the entire story and Dean's had time to digest it, until they've come up with a story to tell everyone else. He appreciates it. 

"Dean," Bobby starts to say, then pauses, says, " _Christo_." 

Dean snorts but Sam flinches at the unexpected flood of heat throughout his body. So that's what that feels like. He doesn't think Dean's seen him -- Dean doesn't react at all -- but can't be sure. This might be harder than even Lilith had foreseen. 

"Dude," Dean replies, shaking his head. "Not a demon. But anyway, listen, we just wanted you to know we're fine. Heading out west; thought we'd see the Grand Canyon. Maybe we'll stop in and see you on the way back."

"That's good, Dean. That's. That's real good news." Bobby sounds relieved, far more relieved than Sam would have expected. Bobby was always closer to Dean than Sam and Sam never begrudged his brother that connection, but he hadn't realised it was such a close tie. He should have. He won't make that mistake again. "You boys be careful. Just 'cause there aren't any demons gunning for you any more doesn't mean Bela isn't, or any number of hunters. Keep your eyes open." 

Dean snorts. "Always do, Bobby. We'll keep in touch." 

\--

Neither of them say anything about their conversation with Bobby, just get back on the road heading west. The Impala's silent, uncomfortable and tense, and Sam's ready to say or do anything just to change the atmosphere. Knowing that they're going to have to address it eventually, Sam fixes his eyes on the passing scenery and says, "I don't have the tattoo anymore." He waits for Dean to say something but his brother doesn't. "It. It didn't survive hell." 

"Want to get a new one?" Dean asks. 

Sam's immediate response is to gasp out a denial; if it hurt before he was fully awakened into his demonic powers, heritage, he has no idea how painful it'd be now. To answer that quickly, though, would invite questions. Sam doesn't want to answer any questions, not this soon. Lilith would force the issue, Sycorax would have punished Sam for not responding right away. Sam lifts his hands, touches his throat. He misses them, misses their dependability, their care, twisted as it was, for him. 

"Not yet," Sam answers. 

The car descends into quiet again. Sam's relieved when they get derailed an hour outside of Lincoln, Nebraska. 

Dean's driving, knuckles white on the wheel, and Sam gets a headache, a sudden sharp pain in the back of his head. He can't help the gasp and even as Dean's pulling over, Sam's bending in half because this pain, it feels like a vision and yet he knows it isn't. 

"What is it?" Dean asks. Before hell, before Sam died, Dean would have touched him, his shoulder, his arm, something to help Sam ground himself. Ever since Sam came back from hell, two days now, Dean hasn't touched him once. "A vision?" 

"No," Sam says. He's trying to separate the headache from what it's trying to tell him. It's still so new to him, the gifts that his second death unlocked: the precognitive visions, sure, and he's even all right with the demonic and ghostly summonings and the telekinesis, but this feels like something different. "I think. I think maybe there's something here? I feel like there's something, something _wrong_."

Dean sighs, shifts and waits for Sam to ride the ache out. Sam sits up and Dean says, "Guess we should find a room here and figure out what's going on." 

It's half a question, so Sam offers, tentative, "It might not be anything. We could always just. We could keep going. If you want." 

"Sam," Dean says, looking over. "You're kidding, right?" As if Sam's insane, as if Sam's gone mad, thinking of leaving behind something they don't even have any information on or leads about, something Sam might be confusing or imagining. 

"Yeah," Sam says, staring out of the front windshield. "Yeah, I guess so." 

\--

It takes two days but they find the reason for Sam's headache. There's a poltergeist bound to a building in downtown Lincoln's Haymarket neighbourhood; whole blocks are being renovated into loft and studio apartments and the builders are waking up all manner of spirits and ghosts. The poltergeist hasn't done much except rearrange furniture but it seems to be escalating: a week ago, one of the decorators got a broken foot from a falling shelf; two days ago, when the Winchesters were driving in to town, a building inspector fell down a flight of stairs and broke about twelve bones. The inspector claims he was pushed; no one else was in the building. 

When they hear that piece of news, reckon out the timing, Dean glances at Sam quickly, then looks away. Sam doesn't say a word. 

\--

They break into the building late at night, bags of herbs in hand along with salt and silver. Dean heads for the east corner of the central loft where the poltergeist seems bound and Sam kneels in the middle of the empty room, chalking out a power-disrupting rune inside of a protection circle. The poltergeist shows itself relatively quickly but dissipates after a rock-salt bullet right to the centre of its manifestation; Dean moves to do the west corner as Sam finishes the symbol and starts a second one, right next to the first. 

Dean's on the third corner when Sam stops, cocks his head to one side and squints as he listens. 

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?" Dean calls out, sparing a second to glare at Sam over his shoulder. "Come on, we need to hurry before this thing comes back. _Sam_."

Sam nods, swallows, ignores whatever he thought he heard. It had to be nothing; the poltergeist is making too much of a racket. The coffee table shakes as if the poltergeist is attempting to work up the power to throw it across the room. Before it can, Sam finishes the second rune and starts the third and Dean moves to the fourth corner. The second rune, one of enclosure, combines with the power-disruption rune to trap the poltergeist's power. Sam's teeth ache. 

The fourth sachet gets shoved in the drywall and Sam closes the last rune, the banishing rune. With a wail and a last, hot breeze, the poltergeist explodes in a wave of cold air and the apartment is silent. 

Dean stands, wipes dust from his jeans, and gives the apartment a look of pleased accomplishment. "Right," he says. The look fades, just a little, as Sam stands. 

Sam's head feels lighter, almost too light. Now that the air of the supernatural has disappeared, now that the pressure's off, Dean's looking at him again, pinning him down with accusation on top of suspicion. Sam can't meet his brother's eyes; he looks down at the runes, studies the firm strokes, and realises that Dean has probably never seen those runes before. It doesn't worry him, not exactly -- he can explain it off as research and Dean will most likely believe it -- but he didn't even think twice about using something that he learned in hell. 

"We should go," he says before looking up at his brother. 

Dean just looks at him before saying, "We'll stop in and see Bobby."

Sam's stomach churns. He nods, leads the way back to the Impala. In the distance he hears sirens.

\--

He gets another headache one hundred miles closer to Loup City. This time, instead of digging his nails into his head, he digs them into his jeans. Dean never knows and never says anything if he smells blood; Sam rides the waves of pain out like it's they're an Icee cooling him down on a hot day. When they stop for the night, when Dean's stretched out and unconscious in the bed closer to the door, Sam sits up on his bed, crosses his legs, and thinks. 

There's no way he'll be able to keep hiding this from Dean, even if he learns to stop reacting. He's felt the ache that means something isn't right twice now, overwhelming everything else, but the other aches and pains will follow soon enough: visions, dreams, other demons. He can feel demons everywhere he goes, a feeling that grows stronger the closer the demons are, and he's worried that he won't be able to resist them. They make his heart ache with homesickness. If there was a demon twenty miles away, Sam would go to them, he knows that like he knows the curve of Lilith's smile. 

No, he has to block them out before he worries Dean even more, has to block everything out and pretend to be as normal a human as he can. Taking out that poltergeist the way he did, that was perhaps the most idiotic thing Sam's ever done. Dean didn't deserve that. Dean doesn't deserve anything less than as much humanity as Sam can summon up so Sam will hide everything else. 

That decision made, he starts to work on building barriers around his mind, similar to the rudimentary ones Missouri taught him all those years ago. These ones, though, these ones are fueled by the power of hell and they crackle as Sam lets them free to grow. He falls asleep, feeling with every second that he's cutting himself off from the only thing that keeps him sane whilst away from Lilith. 

\--

There's a salt line on the edge of Bobby's property. Sam had forgotten about it, sees it now from half a mile away and feels his heart sink. The runes hurt but held, he was able to touch salt and sanctified silver, but he doesn't know how a line of salt will feel. He doesn't say anything to Dean about it, lets his brother get closer and closer, and feels a healthy amount of respect for what Azazel and Jezebeth, the demon who possessed both Meg and him, a year and a half ago, could do. 

Dean drives across the salt line and Sam shivers, swallowing back the whimper that wants to come out. The salt burns like his entire body is an open wound, burns and stings, but then they've crossed over the line and it's gone. Sam slumps in his seat and rubs his eyes, ignoring his brother. 

Azazel could cross salt lines. Jezebeth could walk onto holy ground. Sam is the heir of one, the prince of hell itself. He should have known he'd be able to do the same. He just hadn't expected it to hurt so much. 

Dean glances over but doesn't say anything more than, "We should be there in five minutes," as if Sam hasn't ever been to Bobby's before, as if he didn't come here, possessed, last year, and try to kill the man himself. 

Sam nods, realises that there'll be holy water in both of their drinks, and wants to cry. 

\--

There are two dogs roaming the salvage yard when Dean finally lets the Impala roll to a stop and parks, shuts the engine off. Both of them immediately lope over to the car, sniffing at the tires as they make a complete round of the Impala. Dean opens his door and steps out, dropping to one knee and letting the dogs sniff him, lick his face. He rubs behind their ears, has them rolling on their bellies a moment later, and gives them each a vigorous rub before standing up. 

He looks at Sam, raises an eyebrow, and Sam sighs, opens his door. The pair of dogs runs around to him, stopping a foot away from him. One whines high in its throat, the other shakes its head, muzzle and tail both dropping. Sam kneels down, holds out one hand. "I'm all right," he whispers, hoping that Dean can't hear him. "I swear, I'm all right." 

The dogs glance at each other, as if they're silently communicating, and one slinks forward, cautiously sniffs Sam's outstretched fingers, keeping its eyes on Sam. After Sam doesn't move, reassured by the scent of a human under the covering of a demon's blessing, the other approaches. Neither of them are as affectionate with him as they are with Dean, but they're willing to let him touch them, scratch along their backs, pick burrs out of their fur. 

Sam hears movement and the dogs pause, look around and up. Sam follows their glance, sees Dean and Bobby standing side-by-side and watching him. 

"Best get this over with," Bobby finally says, as if he's only willing to let them both in his house now that they passed the salt lines and the dogs haven't reacted too strangely. 

They follow, Sam getting goosebumps as he passes over the salt lines buried just inside the door, as he fights the power of basic pentagrams to enter Bobby's kitchen. The old hunter eyes them both, hands them over shot glasses filled with holy water, and says, "Thought you'd take longer to get here. Grand Canyon move since the last time I looked?" 

Dean snorts, says, "Got sidetracked on our way through Lincoln." He holds up his shot glass, nods at Bobby, and throws it back. "Believe I'm not a demon now?" 

Bobby stares, stunned, then moves and claps Dean on the shoulder. He looks as if he's struggling for words. Sam watches the two of them, feels longing for Lilith rise up in the back of his throat. Bobby's always had a soft spot for Dean, has always related better to Dean even with all the hours he's spent poring over old texts with Sam. Sam doesn't begrudge his brother that, knows that Dean counts on Bobby, but he's been torn away from Lilith, doesn't know when he'll ever see her again. He's allowed to be resentful. 

They both turn to Sam, then, and Sam holds up the glass, studies the holy water, and swallows the blessing. The water turns to steam in his throat. It feels like he's put his entire mouth over a boiling kettle, the temperature scalding him. He doesn't cough, doesn't react, just puts the glass down. 

"How'd you do it?" Bobby asks. "How the hell'd you do it?" 

Dean snorts at the unintentional pun but doesn't answer. Instead, he heads for the refrigerator, pulls out three beers and divvies them out. 

"I made my own bargain," Sam replies. He holds Bobby's gaze but can't keep it up; he drops his eyes to the counter and traces the pattern years of damage and ill use have caused. 

"Oh, Sam," Bobby says. "How long? And what makes you think we'll find a way out before it comes due?" 

Sam bites his upper lip. He looks up, meets Bobby's eyes. "I already paid my due, Bobby. I bought out Dean's contract."

Bobby shakes his head, says, "You tried that, Sam, more than once. Every single one of 'em said they weren't high enough up in the." He trails off, opens his mouth and closes it, opens it to ask, "Who did you bargain with?" 

"Lilith," Sam replies. Bobby pales and glances at Dean, who's visibly holding himself in check. Dean's knuckles are white around his beer bottle, eyes tight, lips pressed in a flat white line. "It's done, Bobby. Dean's safe. He's not going to hell, not ever." 

"Sam," Bobby says, then stops. Sam can see Bobby thinking over what Sam's just said. Bobby shakes his head, gives up. "Well. It's good to know you're both fine. Gonna be the death of me still, you Winchesters." 

Dean's smile is forced. Sam doesn't even try for one.

\--

They spend three days in South Dakota, stock up on ammo, get plenty of sleep. Bobby corners Sam once while Dean's out doing some routine maintenance on the Impala before they get back on the road. 

"Was it worth it?" Bobby asks. 

Sam shrugs, gives Bobby a tired smile, and replies with another question. "What do you think?" 

Bobby isn't happy, goes around muttering about stubborn-ass Winchesters always determined to sacrifice themselves for each other. He doesn't run them off with a shotgun. Instead, he tells them he hopes to be around for a while yet and not to call unless it's urgent. Both Sam and Dean know he's only half-serious. 

They leave and the dogs sit next to Bobby, tongues lolling out of their mouths.


	4. Chapter 4

It gets easier, as the days turn into weeks, to hide. On hunts, he doesn't even think to react with his newly-unlocked gifts, immediately uses fists and guns. When they hustle, he doesn't cheat by using the powers of persuasion and distraction he now possesses, doesn't whammy anyone or charm anyone or help his sleight of hand along with something more supernatural than good training. He sleeps and dreams of Lilith, wakes and doesn't talk. 

Dean doesn't talk, either. Sam knows his brother's trying to find the words to ask what happened, what _really_ happened, but Dean doesn't bring it up. He thinks Dean's waiting on purpose, waiting to see how long it takes before he cracks. This is Dean, though, and as much as Dean hates talking about himself and complains when Sam rambles on and on, they both know it isn't normal for Sam not to. 

They both know that Sam's changed. Only Sam knows how much. 

\--

Dean's pretending to be asleep as Sam puts his shoes on, makes sure the laces are knotted tight. Before all of this, Sam thinks Dean would have said something, but now he's just lying there, listening. The quiet's soothing though, as is the sound of Dean breathing, inhale-exhale like there's nothing to it when Sam's intimately learned the pain involved.

He leaves, bouncing on his feet a little, and as he starts to jog, warming up his muscles, he can't help thinking about doing this in hell, demons waiting with red-hot pokers and cat-o-nine-tails, whipping him and burning him as he walked at Sycorax's order through every circle, skin on his feet blistering and melting off in the heat. It comes together somehow, as he runs; the smell of fire and brimstone, the phantom ache in his skin and bones as they shredded to pieces, the pure agony as Lilith put him back together time and again, combined with the smell of water in the air, the sound of birds, the thump as his sneakers hit the asphalt over and over. 

\--

He gets a mile down the road, is starting to feel the burn of his protesting muscles, when someone joins him. He doesn't need to look because this is a demon, one whose presence Sam knows inside and out both here, on earth, and thanks to his time in hell. 

"Your mother misses you," he says, idly, when she just runs, silent and easy next to him. "She thought you'd visit, Ruby." 

Ruby scoffs but doesn't say a word for five minutes. "If mother misses me, putting you on a cross of yew and crucifying you in front of hell's inhabitants isn't the way to get me home." The words are biting, the tone more so. 

" _Proserpine_ ," he murmurs, a gentle rebuke as he pauses to catch his breath. Still not up to par, but three days in hell and a month on earth, he shouldn't expect to be. She scowls, looks away. "Proserpine, why are you still here? Why didn't you go back? Every other demon on earth went back. Dean was in Limbo, it's not like you would've been missing the chance to feed him full of lies. Which, by the way, you didn't need to do in the first place. He's still convinced he's going to hell after he dies and that he'll become a demon once he's there."

She bares her teeth, looks at him with black eyes. He can see her inside of the host, the form and visage of her real self, and it takes his breath away. She's so beautiful; she looks like her mother. Sam reaches out, cups the curve of her jaw, lets his thumb stroke her skin. She feels like her mother, now that he knows what he's looking for, the smell of decay, the slick Balm of Gilead that soothes him.

"Sam," she starts to say. 

He shushes her, puts one finger over his mouth. "Just let me, Ruby. Proserpine. Please, just." 

Her eyes close and she breathes through her nose. She doesn't pull away, lets Sam stand there, taking in the feel of her, something deep inside of him calmed by the contact like he knows that this is where he's supposed to be. The prince of hell and the princess, together; Lilith thinks of them in that way, Sam knows, just as he knows Lilith has plans within plans, too many for Sam to tease out. 

"You can't miss it," Ruby says when Sam finally steps back, opening black eyes to look at him. "Sam, they. What they did, it's unconscionable."

"You spend too much time on earth, Ruby," Sam says. "Your mother's right about that. It's made you forget what you are, deep down." He doesn't argue, though, because he agrees, somewhat, but he's read the Bible more than once and he knows what he is to the demons. He knows why they did it and he knows that it worked, which is far, far worse. 

Ruby looks away. "Dean will want to go with you, y'know. He won't last down there."

"Sycorax already told me that," Sam says, plain and simple. Demons lie, sure, but he's their prince. He knows hell. He knows that they're telling the truth. She shakes her head but it's not an argument. Sam reaches out to her again, brushes hair away from her cheek. "You were the only one who didn't come back," he says. "You were the only one who didn't partake of me. Proserpine, how I am supposed to." 

"They fucking _crucified_ you," Ruby hisses, shoving his hand away from her face. "They cut you to pieces and ate you, Sam, drank your blood until you didn't have any left. They _killed_ you when they could have unlocked your power in a hundred other ways. Humans are one thing, but us? We're supposed to be different from them, _better_. You think I wanted any of that?" 

Sam gives her a tired smile and asks, "You don't want any of me?" 

She opens her mouth, stops, lets out a sigh that Sam feels down deep at the base of his spine. "It's not that," she says. "Sam. It was a mockery. It was criminal. Something like that, our _prince_ , it shouldn't have been so massive, so public, so, so distasteful. Mother and Sycorax, they were wrong." She looks away, adds, softly, "It should have been solemn. It should have been beautiful." 

"So show me how it should be done," Sam says. Ruby looks at him, black eyes narrowed, arms crossed on her chest. He thinks of Dean, probably back in the motel room, still in bed, channel-surfing; he thinks of Lilith, the smell of her as she healed him from Sycorax's play time and time again. "Show me, Proserpine," he says, again, holding the weight of Dean's safety in the back of his mind, the last words Sycorax spoke to him in the front. Ruby swallows. " _Please_ ," Sam whispers. 

He feels hollow, wrung-out like after one of Sycorax's sessions, before Lilith's healing, broken into pieces and waiting for someone to put him back together. This is insanity, asking another demon to hurt him, begging Lilith's daughter to bind herself to him as her saviour, but he can't help himself. He needs this, needs _her_ , and he hates himself for it even as he knows that this, doing this, being _this_ , is what he's meant to do, what he was born to do. 

Dean would stop him in a heartbeat, make sure Sam knows how crazy he's going and then distract him from thinking about it, banish Ruby and drive three states away. Dean's not here, though, and Dean can't help him, not when Sam gave himself to hell to save Dean's soul.

Ruby steps closer, looks up at him for a long minute as if she can read all of his indecision right from his eyes. Sam closes his eyes as one of her hands settles on the back of his neck, pulls him down for a kiss. She tastes like Lilith but sweeter, the demonic corruption twisted up and knotted around her time on earth, like being around humans has given her kiss the feel and taste of honey. 

He opens his mouth to her, strokes her tongue when it slips between his lips. They kiss, long and lazy and languid, her fingers like ice where they slide under his shirt, and when they break apart, Sam can feel hellfire burning in his eyes, wonders what they look like. 

"My prince," Ruby murmurs, before tilting Sam's head to one side. She tongues the sweat off of his neck, drops to her knees and pushes up his shirt. 

"Proserpine," Sam replies, throwing his head back to the sky as she nuzzles his belly button. He tangles his hands in her hair, closes his eyes again. "Princess. This is my body, given for you. Whenever you shall eat, do it in remembrance of me." 

She presses her forehead to his stomach, whispers, "Your body, given to me, freely and willingly." They stay like that, a frozen tableau, until she bites. She doesn't give him any warning, just moves her face and rips a chunk of flesh out of his stomach. 

Sam doesn't flinch; he had worse in hell. Still, there won't be any healing after this, neither he nor Ruby are able to do that, not here, not yet. With blood coursing down his stomach, he says, "This is my blood, given for you, a new covenant, a new willing sacrifice. Whenever you shall drink, do it in remembrance of me." 

Ruby licks up the blood. The feel of her tongue on his skin, the imprint of her teeth on his stomach, it's making him lightheaded, woozy, and he doesn't realise he's hard until she nudges his dick with her nose.

There, on the side of the road where anyone could see them, Ruby whispers, "Your blood, given to me, freely and willingly," and sucks his cock until he comes down her throat. 

\--

"Dean's going to kill you when he finds out, y'know," she says, when they're jogging again, two of her strides to every one of his. 

"I know," Sam replies, feeling the pain of missing flesh as he runs, the impact sending shocks up his spine. He doesn't argue with her because she's right. Dean will find out, it's just a matter of how and when. He's not looking forward to it. "Believe me, I know."

\--

Ruby stays with him, jogging next to him in silence until Sam gets back to the motel parking lot. She stops at the edge of the asphalt, stands there and says, "Sam." 

"Ruby," Sam replies, waiting. 

She looks as if she's arguing with herself, hesitating for some reason, and eventually shoves her hand in her back pocket and pulls something out, shoving it at Sam. 

He takes it, looks down and studies the thick, black-dyed hemp, a series of three charms braided into the three rough strands. The symbols on each amulet strike a chord inside of him: the one in the middle is in the shape of a heart with a fish-hook bisecting it, the left charm is a miniature goat, and the right resembles a circle, the outline of a flower inscribed in it. 

"It's a pomegranate," Ruby says. Her voice is curiously flat; Sam looks at her and sees a blank expression. 

Sam looks back at the necklace, rubs his finger over the charm on the right. Ruby bites back a cough. Sam stares at her, says, "The pomegranate. It's you. The goat would have to be my. It's Azazel, right?" He looks at the middle charm, thinks of the way it felt to have his heart bleed out, to have a stake shoved into him and kill him, over and over and over again, without dying. "Lilith," he whispers. 

Ruby takes a step closer. "Mother wanted you to have it. I. Well. If you want it." She sounds curiously uncertain, nothing like he remembers her, nothing like she was just a few minutes ago, keeping pace with him. 

"Will you put it on?" he asks, quiet. Something about this seems like it deserves quiet. It demands reverence. She nods and Sam turns around, bares his neck to her. The necklace is tight around his throat, more a choker than anything else, and it settles on him like it was made for him. It probably was. "Thank you." 

"You should go," Ruby says. "Your brother."

Sam nods. "Yeah." He lifts one hand to his throat, fingers ghosting over the charms, and doesn't look at Ruby before he walks away. He can feel her watching him as he gets closer to the room Dean's still inside. Sam pauses at the door, turns to look at her, and he can hear voices inside; he frowns, leans closer to listen. Dean's rustling around the room and it sounds like he's turned on his cell's speakerphone. 

"You don't understand," Dean's saying. 

He sounds so confused, so lost and hopeless that Sam feels like shit for eavesdropping, but then Bobby replies and Sam stiffens, wondering if Bobby knows something, is going to tell Dean one of the myriad numbers of secrets Sam's keeping from his brother. 

"I understand just fine," Bobby says, sounding exasperated, like he's trying to explain something incredibly simple to someone who _should_ be able to understand. 

Dean snorts, Sam can hear the mattress squeak as Dean thumps down onto the bed. "Bobby, you don't. Something's _wrong_ with him, seriously wrong. I don't know what but I know that something about this whole thing just isn't right." 

Bobby sighs. "Dean, you think someone like your brother can do what he did for you and not come out a little crazy on the other end? 'Cause if you have, you're thinking like an idiot. Just 'cause he doesn't have any scars you can see doesn't mean he hasn't been hurt." Dean doesn't say anything; Bobby gives him plenty of time, but eventually says, "Listen. Demons screw with peoples' minds. Sam was surrounded by them for three days. He needs time to recover and he needs you to not be an asshole. If he needs space, give him space. As much as that boy likes to talk, he will -- to _you_ \-- the second he's ready. You're just gonna have to be patient." 

"I'm not good at being patient," Dean admits. "Especially when it comes to him." Sam is so focused on the conversation that he jumps when Ruby touches him on the arm, casting concerned eyes on him. Sam shakes his head, tilts his head at the door. Ruby listens in as well; Sam would feel guilty for betraying his brother's privacy if he didn't feel confident that Ruby -- if he didn't have so much faith in Ruby. When Dean continues, they're both listening. "Look, Bobby, he's just got me worried. If you're sure he'll be back to his emo sharing-is-caring bullshit in time, I'll believe you. He's." Dean stops, takes a deep breath. "I'm just worried." 

"He knows," Bobby says, far more gentle than Sam's ever heard him, even after their father died. Sam swallows; Ruby touches his arm again and rolls her eyes when he looks at her. "You two've always been able to read each other. Even if he's changed enough to give you some trouble, you haven't. Now quit wasting your time on me and go do whatever it is you two boys do when you're not on a hunt." 

The dial tone fills the room before Dean can say anything else. Ruby cocks one eyebrow and Sam shakes his head; it isn't so hard to understand her now, to communicate in looks and barely-there touches. He'd be scared if he didn't find it so comforting, and if that comfort wasn't more terrifying in its own right. 

Ruby frowns but nods, leans up and gives Sam a long, lazy kiss, her teeth nipping at his lips before sucking his tongue into her mouth and biting down hard. The pain floods endorphins through Sam's body and he sways on his feet, lightheaded and aroused, watching her give him an amused smirk and a wave before she takes off, running silently out of sight. 

The door opens and Dean nearly collides with Sam. 

"Just about to knock," Sam says. "Forgot my key." 

Dean gives him a tight smile. His eyes dip to the necklace but he doesn't say anything.

\--

They get wind of a possession in the northeast. Jim's been dead for years now but Sam had made contact with a group of loosely-affiliated priests in his frantic search for a way out of Dean's deal. They'd known Jim, known of the Winchesters, and apologised for not being able to help then; they apologise now for contacting Sam, and the father who calls is clearly unsure if it's a good idea. 

"Mr. Singer told us that you did, in fact, find a way to save your brother," Father Sorenssohn says. Sam's eyes flick to Dean, sitting behind the steering wheel and driving with his eyes fixed too firmly on the road. "He said the two of you are still hunting but I."

"It's all right, Father," Sam says, the first thing he's said since 'Hello.' Dean's eyes slide to him, then jerk back to the road. "Bobby was right; we're still hunting. Why?" If Sam's any more abrupt now than he was this time last year, he's not going to apologise. He has a good reason, he thinks. 

Father Sorenssohn doesn't react to Sam's tone, just breathes out, "Allelujah, and praise God." Sam takes the sudden hit of pain from that like a punch to the face. "We've come across a girl, a young woman, who's possessed. None of us can get close enough to trap her for an exorcism. We were hoping, if you and your brother had time, we might ask for your assistance."

Sam breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, resisting the urge to bang his head against the dash. They've caught a demon and now they want him to send it back to hell. He almost asks which demon. 

"What?" Dean asks. "Who is that?" 

Dean. Dean will want to take this case. He's been chomping at the bit to tackle a demon, maybe because he always liked sending demons to hell, maybe because he wants vengeance for time spent trapped in Limbo. 

Sam worries at his bottom lip for a moment, then says, one hand over his phone, "It's Father Sorenssohn, from Maine. I talked to him around Christmas last year, do you."

"Yeah, I remember," Dean says, cutting him off. "What's he want?" 

"They've tracked down a demon-possessed woman," Sam says, feeling something deep inside of him click with the feeling of destiny. "They want us to come and exorcise it. He says she's picked them all out and won't sit still long enough for the Latin." 

Dean glances at him, clearly hesitates. "Are you," he starts to say before he stops himself. "If you want to take it, we'll take it. Nothing else on the radar right now." 

Given the choice, Sam would rather go to the other side of the country, but Dean's watching him and Dean's worried. If Sam says he doesn't want to deal with this, Dean might start getting ideas. 

He puts the phone back to his mouth and says, "Father? We'll be there tomorrow night."

\--

Ogunquit is a sixteen hour drive from Asheville on the toll roads and interstates. Dean avoids big cities and sticks to state highways; he spends two ten-hour days driving at speeds not made for badly-paved two-lane roads. Sam doesn't say much. He brings a backpack with him to the front seat and starts going through his research journals; he hasn't looked at any of them since walking out of hell at Lilith's side.

Sam can feel Dean look at him every so often, can almost see it when Dean takes a breath and opens his mouth to speak before stopping himself, turning the majority of his attention back to the road in case county sheriffs or local cops are out. Dean doesn't say anything and Sam doesn't either, not until he sees a reference to the bookstore that sold him the method of Dean's salvation. His fingers pause on the page, slide over that name and the question mark next to it. He remembers what he thought, the first time he'd heard of it. A store in the middle of nowhere, a place to sell their old books and perhaps find new ones. 

He'd been so naive, then, to think he could walk out of hell without overwhelming changes. He smiles, lightly shakes his head, and jumps when Dean says, "First time you've smiled in days. Something funny?"

"No," Sam says. "Just remembering something."

Dean hums, waits for a few miles to pass, asks, "You doing all right?" 

It's a deeper question than Dean's casual tone might imply; Sam knows it has more to do with his state of mind than whether they need to stop at the next gas station for a toilet or something to drink. Still, Sam says, "Could go for some food, actually," as if he didn't hear what his brother was really trying to ask. 

Sam sees Dean's knuckles turn white around the steering wheel. They stop for dinner ten minutes later, a local place where people look at them funny and the pot roast plate comes steaming hot. Neither of them eat.

\--

Father Sorenssohn is standing outside of All Saints Catholic, just south of Ogunquit, when they pull in to the parking lot. The church is brightly lit and the sound of waves is pleasant enough when Sam gets out of the car and stretches. The father is middle-aged, trim to the point of slender, and his eyes are ingrained with the same tired resolve that Sam always remembered in Jim's eyes. 

"Welcome to York County," the father says, smiling at them. They've never met in person but the father turns to Sam and says, "It's good to finally meet you, Sam," before telling Dean, "Congratulations."

Dean nods and Sam says, "Thank you," for both of them. He looks around, tries to shake free the insistent sense in his gut that tells him being this close to a holy place is _wrongwrongwrong_. "Would now be a good time to fill us in?" 

The father laughs, says, "Bobby wasn't wrong about you two," and gestures to the church doors. Sam swallows but nods and follows the priest. "Call me Isaiah. I'll be your liaison with the group of us up here. I believe we have some food waiting in the parish hall along with some of the others."

Dean perks up at the mention of food, stands a little taller and glances at Sam. Sam looks at his brother, just for a split-second, but it's enough to have the tiny lines around Dean's eyes flicker and fade away. In that instant, even with all of the barriers he has up, Sam's skimming the topmost layer of Dean's thoughts. He stops, backpedals immediately, builds reinforcement on top of reinforcement, but what he finds out has him even more worried. Dean thinks Sam's doing this for revenge, that he's scared but wants to do this to prove to himself that he can. 

Sam's on the verge of saying something but Isaiah's reached the door and pulled it open, ushering Sam and Dean in before him. Dean goes first, of course, and Sam lifts one foot, steps over the entrance and is standing inside of a temple of God. The holiness stings, continuously shattering over his skin and cutting at him like glass. If he hadn't gone through three days of Sycorax's care, this would hurt. 

Sam almost stumbles at that thought. Lilith and Sycorax, they put him through so much. At the time, they said it was because he had to be intimately acquainted with pain in order to use and appreciate it. Now, though. Now, Sam's thinking it might also have something to do with his reactions to holy things: salt, holy water, the name of God. Before hell, this pain would have had him on his knees. Now? Now he welcomes it, now he feels like it is right, more than acceptable. 

He looks up at the crucifix and it feels the way it felt when Sycorax used a spoon to dig out his eyes. Sam tears his gaze away, meets Isaiah's. The father looks concerned. Sam forces out a smile, asks, "Where are the others?" 

He follows Dean, following Isaiah, and looks back once. A double life, an undercover spy, any ridiculous name like that, and it's all true. He can stand on holy ground, he already knows he can drink holy water and cross salt lines; Sam is sure he'll be able to say holy words and touch holy items. Lilith has prepared him well and Sam can't even bring himself to rage at her deception. He understands, after all. 

\--

They walk to the parish hall, connected to the church via the back of the Lady chapel. Isaiah bows at the image of the Blessed Virgin painted on the wall, Dean following his example with a slight nod. Sam looks up, expecting to see the image he's seen his entire life. Instead, he can't help a shocked gasp when he sees that the painting shows him the visage of a weeping Lilith. 

Dean turns, eyebrow raised, glancing between Sam and the painting, asks, "Sam?" 

Sam tears his eyes away and swallows back the urge to kneel. He gives Dean a tight smile and shakes his head. Isaiah's watching them as well, closely; he goes on when Dean motions in the direction of the door. Dean sticks to Sam's side, his mere presence bolstering Sam, pushing him onward. 

There are five other fathers inside a parish hall that smells of fish. Sam can see a pot, guesses it's filled with clam chowder, sees a spread of sandwiches and a big bowl of chips as well. Isaiah introduces them to the other fathers, each of them from a different region of the country, and says, "We'd gotten some information about omens and signs from a former compatriot of yours." 

At Sam's blank look, one of the other fathers, Gary, says, "Ash, from a roadhouse in the Midwest? He gave us some computer programs that are horribly complicated. We can't make heads or tails of them beyond turning them on and off, so tweaking them for the specifics of what we need is pretty hopeless." Gary smiles, not necessarily apologetically, more matter-of-fact than anything, and goes on. "Mr. Singer said that Ash was unavailable to help, so we make do as best we can. This is the first demon that the program's picked up and it's worked, she's definitely a demon. We just can't get the host to sit still long enough to exorcise her."

Isaiah nods, adds, "I tried calling a few people on this coast, but no one else could come. I hope you didn't have to drive too far." 

Dean's about to answer, has his mouth open and words ready, but another priest steps forward and says, "Let them eat." 

Sam looks at this other priest, has already forgotten the father's name. The man's older, seems patient, perhaps due to experience. Dean glances at Sam, who shrugs just enough for Dean to see. 

The priest adds, "They've travelled for a while. We can fill them in while they get some dinner." He's speaking generally but it's clear he's chiding both Gary and Isaiah in his gentle tone. The other priests flush, offer Sam and Dean sheepish apologies, and while Dean's heading in the direction of the food, talking to Isaiah, Sam meets the older priest's eyes. The father inclines his head in Sam's direction and Sam gets chills though he doesn't know why. He'll have to step carefully until he finds out what about this priest disturbs him. 

Coming here might have been a mistake.

\--

After food -- steak and cheese sandwiches, kettle-cooked chips, thick clam chowder, all of it tasting like fire and raising welts in Sam's mouth, probably thanks to the prayer of blessing Isaiah said -- Isaiah and Gary slide into the backseat of the Impala and direct Dean into Ogunquit. They have Dean stop in front of a nondescript house, typical for the area, close to the Atlantic, the sound of waves omnipresent. Sam peers at the front door, holds tight to his barriers; he doesn't want the demon to sense him. Dean looks around the obstruction of Sam's body, eyes narrowed. 

"D'you have a place where we can lay out a Devil's Trap?" Dean asks. The fathers look at each other, shrug as if they don't know what that means. Sam's surprised but his surprise fades quickly; Jim certainly never used a Trap and they didn't even hear about them until Bobby pulled out an ancient book as a last-ditch lifesaver. Saying that, though, their father used them before, had one in that old storage unit. Sam has enough time to wonder why John never taught them about Traps before Dean says, "We gotta paint a Trap and lure her somewhere. Can't be a motel room. Somewhere she can scream, somewhere that can be damaged while we kick the demon out." 

"There's a place we can use," Gary says, after a moment. "What's a Devil's Trap?" 

Sam looks at Dean, who gives him a look that Sam takes to mean he's the geek, he's the one with the info, he can share, and nods once. "Found in the _Lesser Key of Solomon_ ," he says, turning around to look at the fathers. "It's apocryphal, slides a little close to the boundaries of Kabbalah but never quite crosses over. It has a long history but not many people know about them. There are a few, ranging in size and complexity but also power. Painting one makes it stronger than chalk. Dean and I can get a good-sized one done in about an hour."

Isaiah meets his eyes, holds his gaze. "There's a place, if you're sure it's not demonic." 

That makes Sam's lips curve in a mockery of a smile. "A house divided," he says. The fathers glean meaning from that. Dean's jaw clenches in silence. 

\--

Plans made, one father gets stuck on surveillance duty in Ogunquit while Sam and Dean go past Braeburn and halfway to Phillip's Pond. The location Isaiah and Gary direct them to is good enough by Dean's standards; Sam looks around the old house, full porch looking out across to the Atlantic, and decides this is as good a place as any to be tricked out of his secrets. 

They paint a Trap in red, big enough to hold three demons, and then leave with a wave. Isaiah watches Sam, as does the older priest, until Dean turns and drives south to York Cliffs. They hole up in a motel room near the ocean, probably for tourists that flock this far north in the middle of summer in hopes that the northeast will be cooler. The sound of the waves is comforting to Sam, who associates them with the ebb and flow of the River Styx; he breathes easier and relishes the tang of salt in his mouth, both for the taste and for the pain it causes as it tries to cleanse him. 

Dean, though. Dean has never liked the ocean. Dean prefers the open road stretching out into a horizon, asphalt and sky meeting at a point that says the world will never end and a man could drive forever if he wanted to and had a car good enough to meet the challenge. He’s never been fond of the sea, whether because it brings limitations or because he can’t drive on it, Sam doesn’t know and has never asked. 

With nothing else to do but wait, Dean takes out his guns and starts to clean them. Practical but a nervous habit, though Sam doesn’t call him on it. Instead, Sam pilfers a whetstone and some polish, unrolls his set of knives. He stares at them, lying on the floor, gleaming in the light, reflections from the television dancing over the metal. This is the first time he’s touched a knife since coming back from hell. He doesn’t think it’s long enough. 

Sam knows Dean’s watching but he can’t help reaching out slowly, trailing his fingers down the blade of his miniature Bowie, pads of his fingers pausing on the ricasso. Sycorax had a knife almost exactly like this one and knew how to use it. Sam wonders if he’d be able to gut someone or something with his knife as efficiently as the demon. The blade is cool and stings his fingers; Sam will get used to that, used to dealing with consecrated and blessed metals. The protection runes carved into the wood of the handle make his skin burn. 

He lifts a finger to his mouth, sucks at the burn, and Dean asks, “Cut yourself?” 

“They don’t have an edge enough for that,” Sam replies, looking up through his bangs and seeing Dean pretend not to be watching him with eagle-sharp eyes. “I’m fine.” 

Dean grunts like he doesn’t believe it and keeps one eye on Sam the rest of the night, while they clean and sharpen their weapons, while they get ready for bed, even, knowing Dean, while they’re sleeping. 

\--

Sam has dreams of Lilith and wakes up panting, one hand around his throat as if he’s grasping for something that isn’t there. His fingers clench with fury and loss as he thinks of her collar and how he was forced to leave it in hell. Sam takes a deep breath, then another, keeps going until he’s calm and as relaxed as he ever is. 

Dean’s still asleep. Sam gets up, goes into the bathroom, stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t like what he sees. Everything is wrong and he can’t make it better, he has no way of making it better. With a ragged breath, Sam scrapes his nails down the inside of his forearm, the tender skin with less hair, less of a tan. Red lines appear almost instantly and the sting floods through him better than any drug. He feels better, so he does it again and again and again until the lines are raised with bumps, one more scratch away from breaking open and bleeding. 

When he takes a shower, water pounding over his skin, they hurt. When he puts on a long-sleeved shirt, fabric rubbing against the raised marks, they hurt. When he and Dean are eating breakfast, they hurt. 

When Isaiah calls to tell them that the woman is on the move and this might be a good time to take her, they hurt. 

\--

She’s out jogging with her dog. Gary tells them she does this every morning and he says that if they would rather wait until night, he’d understand. 

“There’s no way of knowing if she’ll catch wind of us by then,” Dean says, and if he sounds like the voice of pragmatism, his eyes are bright with the hunt. “Or if she’ll leave the house again. Going in after her is too dangerous. If you know her route, we’ll take her now, get this over and done with.” 

Gary nods and volunteers to be one of the snatch-and-grab guys. Dean looks at Sam, who says, “I’ll go back and warn everyone you're on the way.”

Dean's eyes narrow but he doesn't say anything beyond, "Make sure they have a couple buckets of holy water ready." 

Sam can feel his brother watching him as he folds himself into Gary’s little economy car, Arizona license plate, and drives away. 

\--

The Trap’s good now that the paint's dry, almost has enough power to contain him, and the other four fathers are content to wait. Sam leans against one of the walls and folds his arms on his chest, content to stare into space as long as it takes Dean to get there. He can feel the priests looking at him every so often but doesn't look back, doesn't move, tries to stay calm. He feels closed in, trapped, almost, and it's a struggle to present the image of a carefree hunter. 

Isaiah eventually wanders over and leans next to Sam. The father’s eyes trace out the curves of the Trap as he asks, casually, “You seem changed from what I remember, Sam. Different. Is that a result of saving Dean or meeting you in person?” 

“Saving Dean,” Sam says after a moment’s thought. He’s not going to tell Isaiah any more than he’s told Dean and Bobby, which is absolutely nothing, but he feels like he owes some kind of explanation to the priest who tried to help him. “It was a long process.”

Isaiah hums, waits a minute, then says, “We’ve never found a way to slide out of a deal,” as if he’s talking about the weather. “And there aren’t any records in the Vatican’s archives, either, apart from saying that the deal can be renegotiated if the demon holding the original contract is killed. Is that what you did?” 

Sam can hear the rumble of the Impala pulling closer, then shutting off. He pushes off of the wall, shoves his hands in his pockets, and says, “No. They’re here.” That effectively ends the conversation. Sam is relieved. 

\--

Dean and Gary carry a woman inside, bruise blooming on her temple. She’s pretty, with thick, dark hair and some meat on her bones and Sam doesn’t need to send his senses out to know that this is a demon. He can _feel_ her, perhaps because he’s so close, perhaps because his emotions are all over the place. Whatever the reason, what they’re doing finally sticks in his throat; she wakes up and their eyes lock. She smiles at him, a true smile, then looks around and sees the Trap, five priests. 

She panics, then growls, and starts to fight. It takes Dean and two fathers five minutes and a lot of blood to get her tied to the chair in the middle of the Trap; Dean’s bleeding from a cut near his hairline and has scratches down one arm. The demon looks worse for wear, covered in blood that might be hers or might be the father’s that Gary’s taken out for medical attention. She bares her teeth at them all and Dean throws one bucket of water over her, picks up their father’s journal and starts to read the exorcism while she's still screaming and steaming. 

The demon catches her breath and starts to laugh, her teeth shining with blood. Dean continues to recite the exorcism but it doesn't have any effect on her. Sam can feel it, wonders how she can't. Latin dances over his skin like sharp blades, digging in at intervals, in rhythm to certain words. He'd react if he hadn't felt the pain of dying by the knife before, if he hadn’t been carved into communion pieces for all of hell. 

The fathers start to murmur and Dean pauses, words faltering and then stopping entirely. 

The demon turns her eyes to Sam, focuses on him completely. Dean tenses, starts to move, stops as she says, "You're our saviour, Sam. Our precious general, our prince. Aren't you going to save me now? Or is your kingdom not of this world?" 

The priests are silent. One of them makes the sign of the cross and Sam ignores the way it skitters over his skin like electric shocks. Isaiah whispers Sam's name and turns white when Dean speaks.

"Sam's not anyone's saviour 'cept mine," Dean growls. "What kind of twisted mindgame are you playing? Tell her, Sam. Tell her they tortured you."

Sam hasn’t said anything specific about what happened in hell but it’s a guess as good as any, a sound theory cobbled together with Sam’s curious reactions to things, Lilith’s comment about his hair, the way Sam wakes up in cold sweats from nightmares. Isaiah looks horrified; Dean’s waiting. 

“Torture,” the demon purrs. “Oh, yes, it was torture. But he handled it so well, didn’t you, Sam? Proved to everyone that Azazel knew what he was talking about when he called you his favourite. You survived the winnowing, you survived your first stay in our circles, you survived four thousand eternities under Sycorax’s careful attention.”

Sam stands there, unflinching, meeting the demon's eyes and listening to her give up his closely guarded secrets. He can feel the weight of Dean's gaze on him, can see Isaiah shaking his head back and forth, lips moving in some silent prayer. Sam will deal with them later, with the fallout of this later, but for now, he studies the demon. 

She is one of the _shedim_ and she's inhabiting the body of a witch; with one look, Sam knows everything there is to know about both of them, demon and human together. The weight of that knowledge terrifies him even as he's thinking that they make a good pair; this _shedim_ 's picked a host that fits her as well as she fits it. 

"Tell him, Sam," she says, as Dean's paused in the middle of the exorcism, as the four priests are waiting. "Tell him I'm no threat. Tell him who you really are, underneath that bag of flesh and bone."

She's no threat. Translators might have lumped the _shedim_ with the _se'irim_ , but the _shedim_ have done more good than harm. This one, turning a witch's pact for some good, she's not lying. 

And yet she's a demon, calls hell her home and can possess humans, could wreak havoc if it wasn't against her nature. She's a _demon_. And Dean is here. Priests are watching. If he wants to survive their interrogation, he only has one choice. He doesn’t want to make it but Lilith never let him slide before. He is her prince, her general; impossible decisions are his and his alone to make.

"You're a demon," he tells her. Dean starts to smile but stops, hearing something in Sam's voice that Sam can't entirely hide, not after three days at the mercy of Sycorax, feeling Lilith's touch like healing oil. "But, then again, so's Ruby." He tears his eyes away from the _shedim_ 's and looks at Dean. "Ruby was far more dangerous than this one could ever be, but we let her live, time and time again." 

The demon smiles, relaxes, as Dean's jaw drops. "Sam. Dude, you can't be serious. We're not just gonna let a demon _go_." Sam starts to say his brother's name but Dean cuts him off, voice hard like diamonds. "Sam. No. We’re doing what we came up here to do. Why isn’t the exorcism working?" 

Sam locks eyes with the demon. “The human was willing,” he eventually says. She's looking at him with belief. She ate of his flesh, drank his blood; she belongs to him, now and forever. “A witch.”

“How do you exorcise a willing human?” Isaiah asks, gently insinuating himself into the conversation. “The usual exorcism doesn’t appear to be working.” 

Feeling his heart hammer inside of him, Sam lets go of his outermost barriers. The demon’s eyes turn black and she gazes at him with adoration. Dean looks disgusted. Sam traces the outline of the demon’s clouds, presses at all of the places where the _shedim_ and the human have willingly merged. Another choice: does he tell them he doesn’t know or does he tell them the truth? 

She is his, like every demon. He can call her from hell whenever he wants and she will come. She _has_ to come.

The demon closes her eyes, smile still clinging to her lips, as Sam says, “A blessing of purification first.” 

Isaiah blesses the woman, Dean begins the exorcism from scratch, and Sam uses his power, granted to him on a cross of yew, to touch the edge of the _shedim_ from across the room. He holds contact with her for as long as she remains in the human. When she disappears in a cloud of smoke, bound for hell, Sam closes his eyes, retreats inside of himself, and feels sorrow wash over him like rain. 

\--

The witch is alive, groans in pain once Dean steps inside the Trap and slaps her once, twice. Sam opens his mouth to protest but it's like Dean heard that movement because he turns around and says, "We'll deal with her, then I think we need to talk, Sam." 

Sam can't hide the grimace but he nods. The priests surround her and begin to pray, an old Latin chant that Sam knows predates the Inquisition but not by much. If a priest could exorcise an unpossessed person, something between hope and brainwashing, this would be their prayer. He moves to say something, anything, but Dean pins him with a furious glance. Sam hesitates. 

"Should I kill her now?" Dean asks Sam. "Before she invites another one in, before she dies and becomes one of them herself, should I kill her?" 

"We'll care for her," Isaiah says. Sam wants to snort, wants to know what their care will consist of, but he's seen the inside of this witch. He knows her soul. She's slippery and smart; she will play along until they're convinced of her remorse. She's strong enough to last. "She is a creature of God, just like any of us," Isaiah goes on, close to pleading for the witch's life. "Does she not deserve a chance at the same redemption we enjoy?"

Dean cocks an eyebrow in question, asking if that's good enough. Sam shrugs, then nods. 

"Fine," Dean says. "Take her away. But the first time you think she might be possessed again, or trying for it? Kill her or get someone else to." 

Isaiah blanches at the thought but nods; he helps two of the priests get her standing, spreads her weight between them. They help her out of the Trap and she opens her eyes, pins them on Sam. "Remember I served," she tells him, breath rasping, close to giving out. She's fighting for consciousness but her eyes are wide and passionate. "Please, remember me, general." 

As much as Sam knows her, she knows him. The _shedim_ knew him and the two were so connected, there's no way she knows anything less than the demon. She saw him on a cross, thanks to the demon's eyes, the demon's memories, saw him accept aid from Pride and Lust, saw him die, joined with him. 

Sam can't help reaching out, letting his fingers graze the witch's cheeks. "I will," he says, with Dean and the priests watching him. 

She murmurs, "Thank you," and slumps, passing out. 

\--

It's the four of them left in the room, then: Sam and Dean, Isaiah and the older priest, Graham, Sam thinks his name is. There's silence, three pairs of eyes focused on Sam, and Isaiah's the first to break. 

"What did she mean?" Isaiah asks. "They both called you a general and the demon wanted you to tell us what you really are. What does that _mean_ , Sam? How did you save your brother? What did she mean when she talked about a kingdom?"

Dean's scowling but the scowl fades into pale worry when Sam replies, "I bargained with the queen of hell. Three days in exchange for Dean's freedom. She said some things while I was down there and demons like to gossip. I'm fine, though; I can still enter a church, still touch holy water, still cross a salt line, still can recite an exorcism or a blessing just as well as anyone else in this room. They think I'm something I'm not." 

Sam wonders why Dean looks so worried now but understands when Dean mutters something under his breath; Sam can't hear all of it but he does pick out a few words: Azazel, dad, cabin, Meg. He's come to his own conclusions about that already but hates the idea that Dean's catching on so quickly. 

He doesn't know what to say, is inordinately relieved when the two priests look at each other and move. Isaiah goes to Dean, asks about the exorcism Dean was reading, and Graham approaches Sam, rests one hand gently on Sam's arm. The touch doesn't ache. 

"I, personally, will watch over the girl," Graham promises. Sam's eyes narrow and he frowns. The priest leans closer, close enough to whisper in Sam's ear, and says, quiet, "Take strength, general. You aren't the only spy in the enemy's camp. This was a necessary casualty of war and the _shedim_ knew it." 

Sam barely stops from reeling backwards. The priest straightens up, smile lingering on his lips as his eyes dip down in a salute. Sam swallows, would swear that Graham is trying not to laugh. He stands there, lets the priest make the sign of the cross over him, and welcomes the sting of the blessing. 

That, at least, is something he's used to. 

\--

They don't stay for lunch. With Isaiah and Graham standing on the porch and waving, Dean drives south towards the rest of the country. 

He doesn't say a word for three hundred miles. Sam looks out of the window as they drive closer to Unadilla, taking the highway between the Adirondacks and the Catskills, halfway asleep, wondering just how long Dean's going to be quiet. He's not sure if it's Dean waiting for Sam to say something or Dean being too pissed off to speak; he isn't going to be the first to say anything. 

"How did you know that purification would separate the witch from the demon?" is Dean's first question. Sam had been expecting something about hell, about Lilith or his gifts or Azazel. He wasn't expecting this. 

Sam looks down at his lap, shakes his head and feels his bangs brush over his forehead. It's still a strange, foreign feeling. "I learnt a lot of things in hell." 

Dean clenches his jaw. For a moment, Sam thinks that his brother is going to drop the subject but then Dean asks, "Like what, Sam? Like those runes you used back in Lincoln? Like whatever had Bobby's dogs scared to go near you? Like how you knew which blessing to use before the exorcism? What did Lilith mean, she was satisfied with what had happened?" 

"They think I'm something I'm not," Sam says, echoing his words to Isaiah. "I came across the runes when I was looking for a way to get you out of hell and the dogs, I don't know. Maybe they smelt hell." He hopes that'll be enough to placate Dean for the time being. When it seems as if Dean's working up to a good rant, Sam adds, quietly, "I'm going to sleep. Wake me up when it's time for dinner." 

He turns away from Dean, folds himself up a little smaller, rests his head on the window. Dean doesn't say anything else. They drive for hours. Sam never falls asleep.

\--

They're doing research for a new hunt in Oklahoma three weeks later when Dean takes advantage of a break in the music to ask, "Are you a demon?" 

Sam's heart skips a beat. He turns in his chair to look at Dean and taps the mute button on the laptop without looking. "What?" he asks. "Dean, where did that come from?" His mind's racing, trying to figure out if he's slipped or not. He hasn't used any of his power, hasn't said anything about Lilith, hasn't even mentioned Ruby, no matter that he's missing her. He's been good, he has, and he can't figure out why Dean's asking now. 

"It's just that I," Dean starts to say, before pursing his lips together in a mockery of a smile and shaking his head. "You didn't answer my question. Sam. Are you a demon?"

"No," Sam replies. Another omission -- 'not yet' or 'not entirely' would perhaps be the more honest answer. He's still human where it counts, but the instant he dies, Death itself will be there to carry him down to hell and place Sam on Azazel's throne. 

Dean snorts as if he doesn't believe that. Sam's irrationally pleased, also furious. "Then why was a demon calling you her general, huh? And a witch? What was she talking about, your first stay in their circles, four thousand eternities? I've given you time. I've given you space, but, damn it, you need to talk to me. You need to give me _something_ , Sam, anything. They tortured you? They fucked you? They tied you up and let hell hounds nuzzle at your dick for three days, what?" 

Sam turns back to the laptop and keeps his palms pressed to his thighs. He can't stand to look at Dean. "I really don't think this is a good time."

Dean snorts. Sam doesn't turn to look. "There's never gonna be a good time, Sam, so I'm making it now. You don't like it, that's some tough fucking shit because we're doing this _now_." Sam doesn't say anything, doesn't move; Dean must take that as assent and not dismissal. Sam can hear his brother moving behind him but he won't turn around and look at Dean's face. "You bargained with them for me," Dean says, and he's softer now, close to begging. "That queen-bitch, she said that they used me to get to you. I have a right to know, Sam. What did they _do_?"

Closing his eyes doesn't help. Neither does a deep breath. This has been coming since the moment Lilith rent the veil between limbo and earth -- probably has been coming since Sam was born, much less the moment Dean kissed a crossroads demon, that Sam found the book, that Lilith accepted his offer. 

It's been coming but that doesn't mean Sam likes it. He's been wondering what to say for weeks now, what he could possibly say that would be honest and give Dean enough of an answer and yet still not be the entire truth. He saved Dean from hell. He doesn't want Dean thinking about what, specifically, Sam saved him from. 

He starts with the easiest question. It might be the hardest for Dean to hear. "You remember _Constantine_ , right?" At Dean's confused assent, Sam finally turns, pins his eyes on Dean's, says, "Each minute in hell lasts for an eternity. I was there for three days, that's four thousand, three hundred, and twenty eternities."

"I can do the math," Dean snaps. It's automatic, though; there's no heat in the retort. Dean digests Sam's explanation as best he can, and asks, "First stay?" 

Sam shrugs. "I died before. You brought me back but it wasn't right away."

Dean looks horrified. "You _remember_ that? You went to hell and you remember?" Dean's already blaming himself for not making the deal sooner, for letting Sam die in the first place, for failing; the horror's turning deeper, turning inward. Sam can see it, is perversely glad that Dean's not focusing on the fact that Sam went to _hell_ , just that he _died_.

"It wasn't bad," Sam tries to say. Dean's eyes flick to him, as if to ask what the crap Sam's talking about. Sam shrugs. "They didn't even see me. Most of them were too focused on the other kids who'd just arrived and Azazel was getting an army ready for the Gate. I found a spot in the fourth circle where I could blend in." Prodigals always do gravitate together. "Anyway, you got me out before any of the bigger names found me, so." 

It's the truth, just not the entire truth. Sam is becoming adept at skirting the edges of truth. Lilith never let him get away with that but Dean does. It's a relief. At times, it's a disappointment.

The fourth circle, home of the prodigals, yes, and painless in comparison with some of the other circles. There were still agonies, though. There were demons who tortured and tormented him but their skill was little and uneven. Compared to things on earth -- being possessed by Meg, hurt by Bloody Mary, torn apart by daevas, watching his father's corpse burn to ash -- it hurt but was bearable. 

The second time, though, when it was more than just his soul, when his body and his mind were under Lilith's hands, it was worse. Worse, but he had a finite time limit. All he had to do was hold on. 

"And the second time?" Dean asks, as if he can read the direction of Sam's thoughts. Sam tightens his barriers as Dean adds, "What happened? Is it connected to why they're calling you their general now? Is it a special kid thing? Is that why they came when you said that word? What _was_ that, anyway? The crossroads demon looked scared shitless."

"I survived Azazel's culling," Sam says, slow and careful, avoiding any mention of the word, of the book. "I'm the last one, so I won my place in the hierarchy. It might've been by default, and I might have died first, but it still counts. I'm their general because I'm meant to lead the demonic army Azazel raised -- we knew that -- and prince because Azazel was king and I'm his heir."

Dean nods, just once. "So they didn't," he starts off, stopping to clear his throat. He sounds a little hopeful now, an oasis in the midst of his fear, asking, "They didn't hurt you?"

"Dean," Sam says, shaking his head. "Do we really have to." 

"I need to know," Dean interrupts, as fierce as Sam's ever seen his brother. "I need to know, Sam."

Sam licks his lips, looks away. He doesn't know whether to lie or tell the truth. He could admit the torture but not the reasoning, could admit the pain but not the end result. "Does it matter?" Sam asks, clearly stalling. "It was worth it and it will _always_ be worth it. Can't we leave it at that?" 

Dean takes one step back, face draining of colour. "What did they do, Sam?" he asks. The tone of Dean's voice sends shivers down Sam's spine. 

"It wasn't bad," Sam lies, holding his brother's gaze. "It could have been worse. Lilith was content to strut and Sycorax talked a lot. I just. I don't want to talk about it. Ever." 

Silence from Dean, and Sam waits. His brother will either accept the lie or argue and Sam isn't sure what he wants, for Dean to press or back off. A minute, two, and when Dean still hasn't said anything, Sam reaches out to touch Dean, pauses with his arm out-stretched, says his brother's name instead. 

Dean doesn't touch Sam if he doesn't have to, it's been like that ever since Sam came back. At this moment, when Sam needs him to, needs him to say anything at all, Dean looks at Sam's hand as if it's leprous. Sam feels burned, pulls his hand back, stares at the floor, and Dean says, "I have to leave." 

He can't have heard that right. Sam looks up, startled. "What? _Dean_?"

Dean paces back and forth, just twice, before grabbing his keys and coat. "I just. I need space. I'll be back." He stops at the door, glares at Sam, and says, "I want that thing off from your neck by the time I get back. Do _not_ go anywhere." Dean leaves without waiting for an answer, an acknowledgment, without waiting for anything from Sam. 

Not that Sam has much to offer, anymore. He gave Lilith his soul and his destiny for Dean's freedom and earth has become a foreign place, too difficult to navigate on the flip-side of hell. He aches for Lilith's touch to soothe him, craves like oxygen the kiss of Sycorax's cruelty. Now all he has left is the hollowed-out shell of his humanity, tenuous as it covers a demon's curses. 

Dean is gone and Sam is alone. It shouldn't hurt as much as it does. This has always been the plan: save Dean, no matter the cost. Save Dean, send Dean to heaven after a long life, and descend to hell in the arms of Death, alone, always alone. 

There's a knock on the door. Sam jumps at the noise, takes a deep breath and stands, goes to answer it. He opens the door, tilts his head when he sees Ruby standing there, shifting from foot to foot as if she's nervous. 

"Dean left," she says, needlessly. "I was watching. He looked." She pauses, wets her lips, stares at Sam's. "He looked furious. What happened? Do I need to worry about him running over someone? Because that is one mess I do not want to clean up. Are you letting me in or not?" 

Another turning point, like so many before this one -- does he open the door and invite her in, or rebuff her and send her away, wait for his brother?

He feels so alone. 

"He asked me what happened," Sam says. Ruby's eyes grow wide and Sam shakes his head, answering her unspoken question. "Not between us, and not the word. He asked me what happened when I was in hell. And I lied about it."

Ruby's eyes narrow. "You gonna let me in?" she asks, pushing the issue. 

Sam studies her, then steps to one side. She steps over the salt line as if it isn't even there. Sam would be surprised but he can do the same thing, knows the feeling of purity slapping up against his corruption, knows how to ignore it like it's nothing. Once she's inside, once Sam's closed the door, she pushes him against it, reaches up with one hand and tugs hard at his hair, pulls him down for a kiss. Sam's tense, has been, but he relaxes when her lips press against his, loosens when she bites, drawing blood. 

She grinds up against him, lets her other hand slither down between them, cupping the bulge in his jeans. Sam moans into her mouth, pulls her tighter against him, and thinks she has the right idea when she growls out, "We're fucking or I'm going to _kill_ you."

They make short work of his jeans, let them fall around his ankles, and she turns them so that her back's against the door, shimmying her jeans and panties down far enough to have space for Sam's dick. She impales herself on him, hisses when he fills her, and all Sam can think is that this is _right_ , prince and princess together, that she's tight and wet, hot as hellfire and infinitely more dangerous. 

She comes and tells him not to, tells him to keep fucking her; Sam does. By the time he's reached his climax, she's come three times and there is a collar of bruises around Sam's neck. He doesn't pull out of her before slumping forward and he can feel the muscles deep inside of her clench as she shifts to cradle his head against her shoulder. 

"You're spying on us," Sam murmurs, voice strained. "Why?"

She snorts, scratches her nails lazily down Sam's back. "Someone has to keep an eye on you and your brother's doing a fuck-all job. He can't even tell you're flying apart at the seams. Fuck, Sam. You _can_ ask for some help, sometimes."

Sam sighs, moves away from her, wincing at how raw his dick feels when he wipes it off, pulls his boxers and jeans back up. "Ask who, Ruby? The same demons that Dean'd exorcise if he knew I was talking to them? And how, without Dean figuring it out? 'S far as I can see, I'm alone in this mess. I created it, it's only right."

"You're an idiot," Ruby says, walking to the bathroom and smacking the back of his head along the way. He turns to watch her, sees her using a cloth to clean up before putting her clothes back on. "You didn't create a thing." Sam opens his mouth to protest but Ruby glares. He rolls his eyes but shuts up and listens. "So you found the key to saving Dean. You didn't ask for the treatment you received. You didn't ask for the crucifixion. You didn't ask mother to leave you alone up here. And you're not alone, Sam." 

"You can't stalk us forever," Sam says. 

Ruby shakes her head, though. Sam frowns, watches her dress, puts his arm around her shoulder when she sits down next to him on the bed. "Not just me. The next time you're in a city, let go of those shields you've got up here," she says, tapping the side of his head. He doesn't understand and tells her as much. "Why do you think you get more demons in cities? It's not just because there are more sinners, Sam. There are places in the bigger cities where we gather, when we can. Safe houses, just for us. Clubs, mostly, loud places." Her eyes are fathomless. "Dungeons."

Sam's heart skips a beat. He looks at her and she nods. Sam swallows. "Huh."

"Some of them are wondering why you never came," she says, looking at the wall opposite them now. "But even beyond that, you're locked up so tight. Sam, letting some of the shields go, you'd feel more connected to us. It might help." 

He can't do it. He remembers what it was like, at the beginning, before he created them. He shakes his head.

Ruby digs her nails into his arm. "Then visit when you can. We worry, Sam." She pauses, adds, "Some of the others, they wonder who you'll pick as your right hand. If you had one, it might be easier on you." His right hand, like Sycorax is Lilith's. Ruby is the princess, she stands at his left as his adviser and equal, but there is an empty space where his enforcer should stand, the whiplash vengeance of Lilith's traitorous saviour. "Think about it," Ruby says. "And for fuck's sake, eat something. You look like shit."

Sam smiles, ducks his head. Ruby squeezes his hand, leaves without another word, and Sam lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking. He takes off the choker, puts it in the bottom of his duffel, and strips down to his boxers.

He falls asleep before Dean comes back.


	5. Chapter 5

They do a few more hunts, basic things: haunted places that need to be cleansed, creatures that need to be tracked and killed, talismans that need to be destroyed. Sam works his way back to a modicum of health and ignores all passage of time except to know that it's passing and much too fast. He has trouble sleeping, can't hold down too much food, always feels like he's one minute from falling apart, but he's healthy enough and can keep up with his brother. That's all that matters. 

His run of good luck comes to a crashing end, though, when Bobby sends them word of a possible hunt in Milan, Ohio. A string of suspicious suicides, Bobby says; men and women, children of all ages, just killing themselves. "Thought about sending you the info a few months ago but a couple other hunters said they'd be able to take a look at it," Bobby says.

Dean rubs his forehead. "They weren't?"

Bobby huffs. "One of 'em went running, the other took a bath with a toaster. The number of unexplained deaths went down after that but it looks like they've started up again." 

Dean looks at Sam, who shrugs. "Guess we'll take it," Dean says. 

\--

They drive to Ohio, get stuck behind a van full of college kids making their way to Cedar Point. Dean mutters under his breath for half an hour, unable to pass them, and Sam tries to ignore his brother, focuses on the laptop resting on his thighs, the rolling farmland all around them.

Five minutes after they enter Milan, Dean gets a glimpse of someone or something and lets out a resigned, "Oh, fuck." Sam looks up from the laptop to give Dean a raised eyebrow; Dean says, "Bela freaking Talbot."

Sam whips his head around to see and narrows his eyes when he catches sight of her. Something's different about her, something he's not entirely sure he understands. He shrugs it off, decides he'll have enough trouble lying to her to worry about whether or not she had a new haircut. She's a good con, has played him and Dean for fools enough times; she's good enough to maybe see through him but this'll be a chance to get the Colt back, at least. He doesn't want anyone else carrying around a gun that can kill one of his.

"Wonder what she's here for," he says. He goes back to his research as Dean tails Bela as unobtrusively as a classic '67 Impala can tail anyone, and only three minutes pass before Sam says, "Oh, great." 

"I'm betting I won't like this," Dean says, letting the Impala roll to a stop. Sam looks up, sees Bela sauntering into a motel room a block away. "All right. Lay it on me." 

"Milan, Ohio. This is where Thomas Edison was born. They turned his house into a museum and they have his spirit phone on display." Sam pauses, squints to see which room Bela went into. "The phone apparently lets the living talk to the dead. No one's really sure it works -- there's more research to suggest the entire suggestion was a hoax and the phone on display's nothing special -- but if Bela's in town." He trails off, clears his throat and asks, "Think she's here to lift it?" 

Dean snorts, leans back in the seat and taps the steering wheel. "Has to be. Kind of coincidental, don't you think? String of suspicious suicides, one potentially bona fide supernatural artifact, one pain in the ass thief. Great. Just great."

Sam looks at his brother, looks away again. 

\--

They split up; apparently Dean thinks that Sam's had enough time being coddled and is able to handle civilian interviews on his own. Sam's not entirely sure that Dean's joking when his brother says that, thinks Dean's still worried about him. On the other hand, Dean's taking off to tail Bela, hopefully without her noticing. Sam remembers the vibes sparking between Bela and Dean when they met up with her by accident in Massachusetts, thinks about the way Dean's become obsessed with her ever since she stole the Colt from them. 

He could push the Bela issue, tell Dean that he doesn't want Dean taking her on without backup. The thought of some time without his brother, though, without Dean hovering, concerned and yet so distant, has him waving Dean off the rental car lot in Norwalk, Ohio, watching the Impala leave with Dean inside. Sam searches for his rental car, gets inside and leans back, stares at the ceiling. 

A tap on the passenger-side window startles him; Sam looks over and sees Ruby. He hits the unlock button, waits until she gets in the car before he says, "I wondered if you'd show up here." 

"Just passing through," she says, leaning over, melding one palm to the curve of Sam's jaw, kissing him deep and hard. "Thought I'd see how you're doing and ask why the fuck you didn't search any of us out when you were in Phoenix."

Sam blinks, finally says, "Couldn't get away." 

Ruby snorts, crosses her arms and props one foot up on the dash. "You're the fucking prince of hell, Sam, and you couldn't shake a human? Better not let word get out about that; you'll give us all a bad reputation." She glances over, softening, and adds, "Don't let it go too long, okay? The break'll do you good." 

"I will," Sam says, trying to reassure her. "Once this hunt is done and we get somewhere large enough. I'll start looking for the next hunt in some of the larger cities." 

"Promise me," Ruby says, fiercely.

Sam's taken aback, wonders what Ruby knows that he doesn't until he sees her eyes caress his bare neck. He's not about to tell her that it's been missing for weeks, probably burned or buried with salt and sage, knowing Dean. "I promise," he says. "The next time we're in a city, I'll go looking." 

Ruby nods, says, "Good," and kisses him once more, stealing his breath before she leaves just as abruptly as she'd arrived. 

With a fond shake of the head, perhaps even too fond, Sam turns the car on and drives north to Milan, then, once he arrives, in the direction of the Greenfield house. Milan's a small Midwest town; he finds himself surprised that no one's approached him or Dean yet about their business here, is even more surprised that Bela's staying here and not down in Norwalk, just a few minutes drive away, big enough to hide in for a few days. She doesn't strike him as the type to appreciate small-town life but he's been wrong about people before; he might be wrong about Bela. 

He isn't wrong about Milan, though; the city's arranged on a grid and can't be more than a square mile big, tucked into fields like an afterthought. The Greenfield house isn't too hard to find and he parks in front, taking note of the closed curtains, the 'For Sale' sign stuck into the front lawn, the air of mourning that seems to hang around the house like a bad smell. 

Sam gets out of the car, picks up a clipboard and a crisp black day-planner, heads for the door. The man that answers the doorbell looks ragged, like he hasn't seen a shower in three weeks, with hair sticking up everywhere, five days' growth on his chin and cheeks, the tattered admittance band from the hospital in Norwalk still around one wrist. 

"Hi," Sam says, modulating his voice for sympathy. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you, Mr. Greenfield, and my sincerest condolences on your loss." 

"Which one are you from," he says. Greenfield isn't being confrontational. He sounds tired. "I've talked to everyone. Three times." 

Sam bites back a wince. "I'm from your insurance company's parent corporation," he says. Greenfield finally looks like he's taking an interest in what Sam's saying. "There hasn't been a problem with your paperwork, per se, but my boss wanted me to come down and go through," he pauses here, delicately, "the events with you, one more time, for internal control." 

Greenfield's shoulders slump. He moves to one side, gestures aimlessly. "Place is a mess. Sit where you want." 

"Thanks," Sam murmurs, stepping inside. 

The guy isn't exaggerating; if the man looks as if he hasn't done anything to himself in weeks, the house looks five times as bad. Sam runs over the case in his mind: wife died three years ago, the son walked in front of traffic six weeks ago, the daughter took all of Greenfield's sleeping pills two weeks after that. As far as Sam's found out, Greenfield's attempted suicide twice since then, once with booze and anti-anxiety medicine, the most recent by carbon dioxide poisoning in a closed garage. 

There's nothing strange about the house, though, no spirits lingering around, nothing even touched by the supernatural, as far as Sam's senses can tell. There are no photographs of the dead but the wallpaper in some spots is darker, richer, the paint brighter, cleaner. He perches gingerly on a stained armchair, waits for Greenfield to shuffle in and sit down in what must be his usual spot, the only clear area on the couch, and says, gently, "I can come back if this is a bad time." 

Greenfield laughs, a desperate sound, and rubs his face. "It's never gonna be better," he says. "Ask what you want." 

"Your son and daughter," Sam says, glancing down at his notes, "Simon and Lanie. Our investigator said that your son was hit by a car outside and your daughter gained access to prescription medication. Is that correct?" 

"Yeah," Greenfield says. "Yes. And then the cops said I was negligent and careless and." He stops, rubs his face again. When he moves his hand, Sam sees tears in the man's eyes. 

Sam can feel wrath under the man's skin, lukewarm and stagnant. He knows that, when it starts moving, hits boiling, Greenfield's going to be dangerous. "Why did your daughter do that?" he asks. "Was it guilt? I see from your police statement that she was home alone with Simon at the time." 

"Could've been," Greenfield says. His jaw is tight. 

Tilting his head, Sam replies, carefully, "But you don't think that's what happened. You don't think that's why she did it. There aren't any statements here on your file, Mr. Greenfield. Why _do_ you think it happened?" 

Greenfield sniffs, wipes his nose on the back of his hand. He stares at the hospital band, stands up and walks to the window, his back to Sam. "I checked her in to a psychiatric center," Greenfield says. "She said. She said her mom was talking to her. I thought it was crazy talk." 

Sam leans forward. There's something telling in that admission. He doesn't want to push but he thinks this is what he's here to find out. This holds the key. "But you don't now? Why not?"

"Because she's talking to me, too," Greenfield murmurs. As if on cue, the phone rings. Greenfield drops to his knees, back curving under the weight of invisible pressure, and he rocks back and forth, hands over his eyes. "Make it stop," he groans. "Please, for the love of God, make it stop. I'll do anything, just make it stop." Sam shudders at the name thrown his way; he doesn't try to hide the reaction he has, hearing Greenfield call on God. Dean's not here, he doesn't have to hide. "Make it stop, make it stop," the man's moaning, piteous as he covers his ears with his hands. 

Sam can almost hear what Ruby would say to that, finds himself saying the same thing a moment later. "Anything, Mr. Greenfield?" as if his voice is speaking without him. 

Greenfield looks at him. "Make it stop," he whispers. "I'll do anything. I swear it, I'll do anything." 

Sam nods. "Answer my questions and I will." 

Greenfield's eyes fill with desperate hope. "Ask me anything. I. I'll do anything, you don't understand. It took my children. It took them away from me and now it wants me to. _Anything_." Sam concentrates, sends power out like a hot wind. The phone in the living room shatters and the ringing stops. Greenfield's too desperate to be scared; he stops rocking, sits back on his heels. "Ask me," he says again. 

\--

Sam calls his brother as soon as he leaves. Greenfield is unconscious, sleeping; Sam knocked him out and promised to come back when it's safe. He looks up at the bedroom window, shakes his head and gets into the car just as Dean's picking up. 

"I know what it is," Sam says. "I think I do, anyway. I'll need five minutes to look some things up and double-check." 

"Please tell me it's the phone," Dean answers immediately. "I really, really want it to be the phone, and then I want to take it before Bela does, and actually salt-and-burn something before she can sell it. Just once, I'd like to get one up on her." 

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, loosens his tie. "It's not the phone. Is she going after the phone?" 

Dean sighs. "Dunno. She hasn't left her motel room all day." 

"Are you sure she didn't go out the back? Or that she was even in the room when you got there?" Sam asks. There's only silence from Dean's end, and Sam says, "Please tell me you checked to make sure she was in her room." 

"I asked housekeeping," Dean snaps. "Dude, please. I'm not new to this, okay?"

Sam turns the car on, pulls away from Greenfield's house. "Housekeeping that she could've bribed, Dean."

"I'll meet you back at the motel," Dean finally says before hanging up. 

Sam closes his eyes, tightens his tie back up. The pressure reminds him of Lilith, of hell. Things were much simpler there. 

\--

Sam takes five minutes and a quick Google search to confirm his guess. He pulls up a website, turns the laptop around so Dean can look at the stylised image of a dog-wolf hybrid taken from the writings of Pliny. 

"A crocotta," Dean says, flatly. "That is not at all as cool as a spirit phone."

"No, but I'm pretty sure that's what it is," Sam replies, flipping the laptop back, tagging the site for future reference. "The guy I talked to, Greenfield, he said that his daughter had been getting phone calls from her dead mother. He checked her into a clinic but now he's getting phone calls from her, too. Phone calls, texts, IMs, emails. It has to be someone at the phone company." At Dean's blank look, Sam says, "Switchboard. The calls are untraceable and star-69 comes up with an old number, pre-everything." 

Dean sits back in his chair, taps the table a few times. "Good to see you getting back in the game, Sammy," he finally says, almost under his breath. 

Sam smiles, tight. In the game is one thing, but he's playing on a different level than his brother. "Bela?" he asks, trying to distract himself from the guilt, from the relief of feeling guilty for lying to Dean when he's guilty of so much more, so much worse. 

"We'll get her," Dean promises grimly. "We'll get her and we'll get our Colt back." 

Dean gets up, goes into the bathroom. Sam's phone rings. He takes it out of his pocket, feels something wrong, as if the phone's covered in with an oily stench, something he knows is there but can't feel, can't taste. He answers it, puts it next to his ear and says, "Hello?" 

"How _could_ you," Jess says. 

Sam drops the phone. 

When Dean comes out of the bathroom, the phone's back in Sam's pocket, set to silent. He doesn't tell Dean.

\--

They decide to wait until the morning to go to the phone company; it's late in the afternoon and they don't want to draw suspicions with their mere presence. Dean decides they need fish for dinner, hauls Sam down to the Lion's Club where they tell people they're from out of town, driving from Kansas to visit family in Cleveland, and thought they'd stop for dinner before hitting rush-hour traffic. It's not the most believable lie they've come up with but it's better than others. Dean has a couple of high-school cheerleaders hanging on his every word in no time at all. 

"He knows they're not legal, right?" a man asks Sam, pleasant enough as he invites himself to sit down across the cafeteria-style table. The man seems to catch himself, says, "I mean, if you two aren't. Not that we. I should stop before I get further behind, shouldn't I."

Sam grins, ducks his head. "He knows," he says. "And we're brothers. I'm Sam, that's Dean; he's as red-blooded as they come but he learnt quick to tell high-school from college. Is one of them your daughter?" 

The man smiles, takes a sip of sweet-tea. "Nieces, actually. M'name's Ron. Why were you visiting Pete Greenfield today?" 

It almost catches him off-guard. Sam tilts his head, still smiling, and looks at Ron, thinks the man looks more suspicious now that Sam's managed to keep his cool. Sam's mind whirls; there's no quick and easy answer for that: if he and Dean are passing through, they shouldn't have been in town that morning and they definitely shouldn't have a reason for randomly stopping by to visit with a man in mourning. 

Without seeing much other option, Sam turns on the charm and asks, "How many people know we've been in town longer than just the past hour?" 

Ron gives Sam a vacant smile. "Not many."

"Good," Sam says. "And who saw me stop by Pete Greenfield's place?" 

"Only a few," Ron replies, still vacant. 

Sam hates doing this, remembers how helpless he felt when Andy used it on Dean, but it can't be helped. They need to stay out of sight and they need to finish this job, just like he'll need to go back to Greenfield's house when it's all done and wake the man up, figure out what that 'anything' Greenfield promised him is going to be. "Dean and I are here to help. Go and reassure everyone else. Now that you've talked to me, you've seen we're good people. You trust us. Tell them Greenfield was friends with distant relatives who wanted us to check in on him. And then leave us alone. We're only here to help; I can swear that to you." 

Ron nods, stands up and stretches his hand across the table. He's lost the vacant look but Sam can still see it in the back of Ron's eye if he looks hard enough. "Good talking with you, Sam. Drive safe." 

"Thanks," Sam says, taking Ron's hand, giving it two good shakes before letting go, putting his hands on his thighs, under the table, and digging his fingers in deep. He feels like he's just done something unforgiveable. "We will." 

The man leaves without looking back, plate in one hand and plastic cup in the other, ostensibly heading for seconds and a refill. Dean comes over a minute later, mutters, "What the hell was that all about?" 

Sam shrugs, sips his tea. "Small towns," he says. "Too friendly." 

Dean's eyes are thoughtful, the skin around them tight, the smile on his lips fading somewhere around his cheekbones. "Yeah," he says. "Right." 

\--

Sam sleeps and dreams of Lilith. He wakes up while it's still dark outside. Dean is sleeping though, it looks, not peacefully. Sam lays there for a while, finally gives up and gets out of bed, slipping on shoes and a t-shirt, grabbing his laptop and heading outside. 

It's cool but not cold, feels nice after the stifling heat and pressure of the blankets and his tossing-and-turning. He sits down, breathes the air in deep, and opens the laptop. Sam checks his email, checks the news, double-checks the address of the phone company and triple-checks his research, before an IM bubble pops up. 

_JCMoore12484 says 'sam, talk to me.'_

Sam blinks, rubs his eyes, feels a chill unrelated to the night air settle on him. Jess' screenname. A phone call from her earlier, the IM now. He knows it's the crocotta but Greenfield said that the messages from his wife, they were things only she would know. 

_JCMoore12482 says 'please, sam. i miss u.'_

He closes the laptop and turns off his phone. The night's calm, soothing; Sam gives in to it, lets the darkness hold him, wrap around him like a blanket. He's tempted to let one of the blocks on his power go but doesn't. 

\--

An hour passes like that and the first hint of dawn creeps along what horizon Sam can see. It's not getting lighter, not yet, but the moon has faded in the sky and the birds are out, singing now that they're awake. Sam feels like part of something larger than himself, connected to the earth, spread out through the ground and the air, and he knows the instant someone approaches. 

He opens his eyes, sits up. When he sees her, he stands up. The chair slides along the concrete without grating. 

"It's true, then," Bela says. "No one else could have done that so quietly." 

What he thought before, about her being different, it's true. It's not a haircut. Rather, he can see her soul and he can see the bargain written over it, tying it up in chains and dragging her down towards hell. Her parents -- it explains why the Ghost Ship came after her. 

"How did you get an extension?" he asks. The date of her bargain is clearly marked, as is the date of its expiration, as is another date, one year on from that. "A year's extension. That can't have come cheap." 

Bela gives him a saucy smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She sits down, waits until Sam mirrors the action before saying, "I gave a girl a book and she made sure the book got to you. And then I stole a gun from you and gave the girl that gun as well. She decided that one was enough for a quick death and the other for an extra year. Three guesses which was which and the first two don't count." 

Sam grimaces. The book, Bela had it and gave it to Lilith or, at least, one of Lilith's courier-demons. He thinks back to what Lilith told Dean, that Dean was the bait and Sam the prize, that Dean was his weakness. She knew he'd do it. She knew all along. Sam finds himself admiring Lilith. Before, he thinks, he would have felt foolish. 

"I have to ask Lilith for the gun if I want it back, then," he says, half a question. "Though at least no one here has it." 

Bela nods and silence stretches thin between them before she asks, haltingly, "What's it like? Hell," she adds, at Sam's confused look. "I'm down to months again and I doubt another opportunity like that's going to fall into my lap. I'd like to know what I should expect." 

"Whatever you're thinking," Sam says, "it's worse." Bela pales. To her credit, to Sam's grudging approval, she doesn't balk, just takes it in and nods, sets her shoulders. He wants to hate her; she shot him, she's stolen so much from him and Dean, she's used them and given them up and betrayed them. She also brought them dream root and gave them enough money so that they didn't have to scam for six months. She's been nothing but trouble but she's kept them on their toes and given Dean a run for his money, which Sam can appreciate. "The eighth circle," he says. "That's where they keep thieves. It's close to the centre, the pit, where the queen reigns from. There are snakes. It isn't pleasant." 

"I never thought hell would be," she says. "Well. I should be going. I take it you're here to kill whatever nuisance is causing the suicides?"

Sam leans back, watches as she stands. "Yeah. You're here to steal the spirit phone?" 

Bela steps back, still looking at Sam. "No," she says. "A friend of yours found me a few days ago, said you'd be here. She said that I should grovel if I want any more time on earth. Groveling isn't exactly my style, though." 

It would've had to be Ruby. Sam doesn't know what his princess means by sending Bela to him, doesn't know what she thought would happen thanks to a meeting like this. He can guess, though, and he doesn't like his conclusions. Lilith is the only demon with the power to renegotiate. It's always been like that, even when Azazel was still alive. He's not sure what message Ruby is trying to pass along to him, if she only wanted him to be aware of the lengths Lilith had been willing to go to in order to get Sam in hell. He hopes that's all. He's afraid it isn't. 

"Good luck," Bela says, breezily, as she turns and walks away, waving over her shoulder. "Try not to die." 

That's more than he thought he'd get from her. 

\--

Dean opens the door of the motel room an hour after sunrise. "You could've woken me up, y'know," he says, almost snippy. "Go get me some coffee. I call dibs on the shower." Sam doesn't say anything, assumes that Dean's already halfway to the bathroom, but Dean steps out of the room, asks, "You sleep okay?"

Sam knows Dean's really asking if he slept at all. Sam shrugs, says, "Good enough."He'll be able to act like it as well. This isn't the first sleepless night he's had since leaving hell. The number of nights he's gotten more than a few hours of sleep he could count on two hands and have fingers left over. 

"Coffee," Dean says, after a long pause. "And see if they have any donuts. I could go for a donut." 

This time the door slams. Dean's angry again. Sam briefly flirts with the idea of telling Dean his anger isn't going to solve anything, doesn't have a positive target, probably doesn't have any target whatsoever. 

Sam stands up, stretches, and goes to the lobby in search of food and drink. 

\--

The local office of AT&T Ohio is a stern, imposing building. Sam thinks it's better suited to a city or, at the very least, Milan's courthouse. It's lit well inside, though, painted in light colours, with light wood trim. The receptionist's smile is as bright and cheery, and her accent is pure Ohio valley when she says, "Welcome. How can I help you?" 

Dean tugs at his tie and Sam thinks, not for the first time, how strange it is to see his brother in a suit. "We're from HQ, ma'am," Dean says, turning on the charm as high as he can get away with without coming off too strong or too hokey. Dean has a talent for it; Sam never has. "Here to run a trace on some old lines," he goes on. "We've had some customers calling corporate to complain, and you know what the big-wigs are like."

She winces; Sam grins and tries to hide it, wondering what kinds of run-ins she's had with the people from corporate. "Let me call Mr. Adams," she says, already picking up the phone and dialling an extension. "He'll be happy to help, I'm sure." 

Dean nods, turns his back and looks around. He walks over to a wall of old photographs, all of Edison, and studies them as if there's going to be a test later. Sam follows, doesn't say anything. 

A man enters the large room, shoes clacking on the wooden floor. Sam looks, watches as the man leans over the receptionist's counter to talk to her, tilts his head and narrows his eyes. The man isn't a man; oh, he's a clever imitation, would fool just about anyone, almost fooled Sam except for the way his aura's a roiling brown-red and leaking out from every pore. This is the crocotta and he's picked a clever hiding place. All the victims he wants, tormenting them in such an ingenious way. There are demons who should be jealous of this creature's skill. 

The man, the crocotta, walks over to them, says, "I'm Clark Adams, gentlemen. How can I be of assistance?" 

Dean shakes the crocotta's hand; Sam can't bring himself to touch the thing. He settles for a polite nod, lets Dean do the talking. In no time at all, they're following the crocotta down a flight of steps into the basement; Sam's not sure anyone's actually down here, is half-expecting a set-up, but then come the flies and then comes the smell of rotten food and then comes Stewie. 

Dean makes jokes about porn and Sam looks around, getting the lay of the office. There's garbage everywhere but also a different door leading outside, not to mention a corridor where the big machines are and, perhaps, another exit. He starts paying attention when Dean leans down, gets in Stewie's face, threatens to expose the poor guy's porn habit if he doesn't help them. Sam smells lust and the failed beginnings of wrath all over Stewie, isn't surprised when he lurches out of his chair to go and look up the number they give him. 

"Fifteen different phone numbers about three months ago, then it dropped," Stewie says. "Picked up again about three weeks ago and it's gone out to four numbers since. All but three of them have been local." 

Dean perks up at that, asks, "What's the most recent non-local number it's called?" 

Sam feels his stomach sinking, panics and sends a spiral burst of power out, zapping the machine. It sparks, Stewie flinches. "Um," Stewie says, gesturing at the machine, three or four of its wires smoking. 

"Right," Dean sighs. "Well. My partner and I'll take a look. Thanks, Stewie." Dean's look of steel sends Stewie scurrying away. Dean pokes around the wires, flinches at a burn on the tip of one finger, sucks it while he keeps looking. "It's fucked," he finally says. "No idea how the crocotta's supposed to fix this. You think it's Stewie? I think it's Stewie." 

"Too obvious," Sam says, carefully trying to gauge his brother's mood. Sometimes Dean accepts disagreement; more and more, Dean fights right back when Sam tries to argue. "I think it's Adams. He's got enough authority that no one would question him being here all the time and he's got access to everything." 

Dean glances at Sam, then in the direction Stewie fled. "Stewie's the tech. It's always the guy with the technical know-how. No suit would know how to deal with any of this." 

Sam opens his mouth to argue but closes it again, internally shrugging. The truth'll come out one way or another. Dean looks suspicious at Sam's silence but doesn't call him on it. The gleam of a hunt is starting to stir in Dean's eyes, the anticipation that says he's found a target and is ready to move in, the need coursing through him to kill and destroy and protect. Sam aches, seeing it; he thinks he has Lust to blame for making him unable to deny just how he feels about his brother. 

Without missing a beat, Dean turns and goes back down the hallway, looking for Stewie. Sam follows, rubbing his forehead, and is about as unprepared for what he sees as Dean. Adams is perched on the edge of Stewie's desk and the tech's in his chair, throat slashed. Adams has a mouth full of teeth that remind Sam of a vampire's. They slide back into his gums the same way, though this is disguise and not nature. 

Dean swears, doesn't look at Sam. 

"You two are clever, I'll give you that," Adams says, "but no one from HQ ever asks about the old stuff. No one from HQ carries guns. And no one that's psychic could ever last at HQ without going batshit." 

Sam blinks at that, wonders how Adams knew, guesses that maybe a crocotta can sense him just like he can sense it. 

"You're fucked," Dean says, flatly. "We're not psychic." 

Adams grins; his lips curl slowly, end up almost maniacally. "You aren't," he says, then points at Sam. "But he is. And a psychic's soul is the best tasting soul on the planet. It has been _so long_ since I've tasted one. I'm going to savour this." 

"I'm not psychic," Sam says. Dean's frozen, glancing between them with horror and not a little bit of anger. 

"Could've fooled me," Adams replies. He stands up, takes off his suit coat. "You smell like one. Get a little closer and let me see if you taste like one." 

Dean moves to stand more in front of Sam than next to him. "You're not doing anything to my brother." 

Adams moves fast, pulls a knife from somewhere and backhands Dean. Dean stumbles, swings wildly and manages to catch Adams' gut. The crocotta doubles over but, when Dean gets closer, reaches out and throws Dean to the floor. Dean rolls, trying to stand, but the crocotta's fast, must've been faking it. Sam throws his power outward, close to the way he did in Limbo, but this time he's not trying to find Dean, he's trying to hurt a crocotta. 

The crocotta goes careening through the air, ends up pinned against the wall. Sam holds Adams there while he helps Dean stand up. The vibrations of power make his teeth ache and a few pieces of paper go flying off of Stewie's desk as the computer screen goes black, then erupts in a shower of sparks. 

"How much control do you have over that?" Dean asks, staring at his brother. Sam shrugs, shakes his head the tiniest bit, and Dean nods. "Thought so." Without much more fanfare, he picks up Adams' dropped knife and goes over, shoves it right into the crocotta's heart. 

Adams dies with a gurgle. Sam releases his power and the crocotta slumps to the floor, then bursts into fire. It only takes a few seconds before the fire alarm's going off and the sprinkler system has activated. 

"Huh," Dean says. "Let's go." 

\--

"I didn't know you could do that," Dean says, tentatively breaching the subject as he's driving back to the motel, taking the long, country roads around Milan to avoid the fire engines. Dean sounds like he wants to talk about this just as much as Sam does. Maybe even less. "Sam, I. You're pyrokinetic now? And telekinetic, and, what, creatures can sense you? This is new? You're psychic?" 

Sam can hear what Dean's really asking. _This happened to you in hell?_ He doesn't know how to tell his brother that all he learned in hell was _how_ to do this, which switches to push, which to pull. Before hell, at some level he always guessed that he'd be able to do things like this. But now, connected to every demon in existence, on earth or not, he knows the truth of his abilities. 

He's not a psychic. He's the prince, Lilith's traitorous saviour. 

If he tells Dean the truth, Dean's going to freak out. If he lies, he'll be proving himself worthy of hell. Either way, he's going to lose. Either way, Dean's going to lose. 

"First time I've done it," he says. 

Lies of omission are just as bad as lies of commission.

\--

Dean wants to drive past Bela's motel, does so and starts cursing when he sees that she's skipped town. Sam doesn't mention her visit last night, doesn't say anything about the phone being a fake or the fact that Bela bargained with demons to get her parents killed. He's not sure how he'd bring it up, for one, not to mention it's way past time for him to mention it, and he doesn't want Dean to be upset with him for lying about not sleeping.

Sam says something about visiting the guy from yesterday, the one that put him on the trail of the crocotta, to tell him that it's over with. Dean doesn't understand why, wants to get the hell out of there before someone puts together two deaths and a fire with two strangers in a black Impala. Sam pouts, then argues, then finally says, "I'll go without you, Dean. I'll meet you in Norwalk when I drop the car off." 

"The fuck you're going anywhere without me," Dean says, halfway close to a snarl. Sam's a little surprised, hadn't been expecting such a vehement response and can't tell where it's coming from. This isn't the first time they've had to take down a creature, isn't even the first time since hell; there have been all kinds of creatures since. Sam doesn't think it has anything to do with the blatant display of his gifts, either. When he looks closer, he sees fear in Dean's eyes. 

"What are you afraid of?" he asks, before he can stop himself. The instant the words leave his mouth, he knows he's made a mistake. 

Dean's shut down, is nothing more than angry now. "I'm not afraid of anything, Sam. I just don't want you going anywhere without me." 

Sam shrugs, says, "I guess we can always call the company and ask if they'll pick the car up here. But I'm going back to talk to Greenfield." 

"Then I'll drive," Dean replies, staring Sam down. "And I'm going inside with you." 

"No, you aren't." If Dean does, Sam won't be able to talk to Greenfield, not like he needs to. "And if you push, so help me God, Dean, I'll go by myself." 

Saying the name of God hurts. Seeing Dean recoil hurts more. Sam thinks of Wrath, thinks of Pride, thinks about the reasons Ruby sent Bela over, and steels himself. 

Dean nods, turns away. "I'll be ready to leave in a few minutes. We'll stop by this guy's house on the way out. Call the rental place." 

\--

The girl answering phones at the car rental place in Norwalk is polite, assures him that there won't be a problem sending someone to pick up the rental, that they did this just last week for someone, that her boyfriend's in Atlanta job-hunting and she's thinking of moving to Texas except that her momma doesn't want her so far away. 

Sam's smiling by the time he hangs up; it might be harder to break into a small town, might be more dangerous and he's never really liked them, felt tight and itchy, but the people _can_ be friendly. Dean hasn't looked at him once, much less said anything, has just gone about the business of clearing every sign of their presence out of the motel room, getting the Impala packed up and ready for a ride to who knows where. Sam doesn't push, knows better than that, and merely hangs up, says, "They'll pick the car up later. We're all set." 

Dean doesn't say anything to that. Instead, he merely gives Sam a brisk nod. “We'd better be going, then.” His tone would, if Dean was Lilith and they were in hell, be sharp enough to rip skin from Sam's bones and grind Sam's muscle into paste. The fact that he isn't Lilith and they aren't in hell is, Sam thinks, more than half the problem between them. 

The ride to Greenfield's house is silent and, mercifully, quiet. Dean parks in the driveway and Sam gets out, goes up to the house by himself. He picks the lock and tries to make it look like someone inside has opened the door for him; once he can go inside he stands there for a minute, as if he's making small talk. With a look back at Dean, he can see his brother's hands on the steering wheel, can almost see the set of Dean's jaw, utterly displeased, anxious to leave. 

Sam closes the door behind him, locks it for good measure, and goes up to Greenfield's bedroom, where he left the man sleeping. He wakes Greenfield up and, before the man can say a word, tells him, "It's gone. I killed it. It won't bother you again."

Tears fill Greenfield's eyes as Sam helps him sit up. They fall on to the man's cheeks, completely unashamed. Greenfield leans forward, wraps his arms around Sam, and starts to sob. "Thank you," Sam hears in between hiccups, in between great big gulps of air. "Thank you." It takes forever for Greenfield to calm enough to wipe at his eyes, sit on his own, hugging his knees to chest. "What do I owe you?"

Sam hadn't expected Greenfield to bring it up, stares at the man as his heart hammers in his chest. He's Lilith's general, Ruby's equal, prince of all demons, and the thought of bargaining for this man's soul makes him nauseous. He's not a crossroads demon to make deals, isn't Lilith to hold them like so much pawns on a chessboard to be used and discarded at will, yet Greenfield had said anything and he knows what he's expected to ask for. It's not even all that out of line: he saved Greenfield from a supernatural creature, after all. Him and Dean, Sam thinks, feeling guilty. 

"What are you?" Greenfield asks, sounds small and quiet in the silence. "Angel? Devil? I suppose you want my soul."

It would be so, so easy to say yes. 

"No," Sam says. Greenfield's had too many shocks over the past couple months, has spent too much time in a spiral of despondency to react to that the way Sam thinks he should. "Just a promise," he goes on. "One favour." 

Greenfield nods, gives Sam a wry smile. "I've heard of these deals," he says. "I think you should just take my soul and be done with it."

Sam snorts, looks down at the comforter, picks out a string and plays with it, curling it tight around his fingertip. "Trust me. You don't want to bargain your way into hell." Not, he tacks on mentally, when you're already heading there. Greenfield tried to kill himself. Suicides make it to hell but so do those who attempted. "We're agreed?"

"Yeah," Greenfield says. "Yeah, we are."

\--

"I hate Ohio," Dean says, once Sam's back in the Impala and they're heading southwest towards Cincinnati. "Fucking hate it."

Sam nods, curls up as small as he can get, and closes his eyes. One hand strays to his throat, rests there. The pressure isn't enough. Nothing is enough. 

He'll start looking for a hunt in a city. 

\--

Chicago. They try to avoid this city as much as they can, have done ever since Meg and the daevas. They can't this time, though, not with a potential _poludnica_ causing havoc inside the Mile. Sam had caught sight of the pattern -- a rash of illness and temporary insanity during the hot summer afternoons, witnesses saying they'd seen clouds of dust, victims saying they'd been talking to a young woman -- and half-heartedly offered to call Bobby, see if there was someone else who could handle it. Dean had said they would take care of it themselves and they had, promptly. 

Instead of leaving right away, Dean wanted to get a few drinks, see if he could score, and Sam hadn't stopped his brother. Dean's been drinking for two hours now, has a couple girls hanging on his every word, and Sam's bored, head aching and skin feeling dry and tight. 

He cracks his neck, makes eye contact with a guy on the other side of the room. The guy's eyes flash black and his head tilts; Sam swallows, picks up his beer and takes a sip. A bigger city, like Ruby had said, and Sam thinks of Meg, setting a trap for the Winchester men half a city away. With one glance at Dean to make sure his brother's not focused on him, Sam lets go of the outermost block on his talents. The resultant loss of pressure almost makes him sway in pleasure as he feels the presence of the demon across the room, one a couple blocks away, and then a whole gathering, clumped tight together and leaking enjoyment. 

The demon across the bar lifts an eyebrow and Sam bites his lower lip before nodding, just once. Sam makes his way to Dean and the noise in this place is loud enough that he has to yell, "I'm going for a walk," into Dean's ear. Dean straightens up, about to say something, and Sam adds, "I have a key to the room. I just need some air. Have fun." 

He leaves before Dean can say anything. 

\--

The demon's waiting outside, eyes ink black inside of its host's face, and nods when Sam steps out. "Didn't think you saw me," it says. 

Sam's met this demon before. "Vetis, of the eighth circle," he says. The demon nods and Sam remembers the way Vetis chose a piece of his arm to slice off and eat, sucking on his flesh like it was candy, looking up at him the entire time. 

"And you are the prince," Vetis says. It isn't a challenge, more an excited statement of fact, as if the demon cannot believe that he is standing on a sidewalk in Chicago and talking to Sam. Hell would be expected, Sam guesses, though earth is not. Vetis looks at the door to the bar, then back at Sam. "And your brother?" he asks. 

Sam's jaw clenches. "I want to go to the gathering place," he says, in lieu of an answer to the demon's question. Or, perhaps, a very definite answer; if Sam's going to the gathering place, obviously Dean will not rush out of the bar to exorcise Vetis in the next thirty seconds. "And Dean will not be following me there," Sam adds, to reassure the demon that Dean isn't just waiting in hopes of exorcising _more_ than just Vetis. 

Reassuring demons, lying to his brother, leaving a bar and walking into the darkness with a demon at his side. Sam's obviously gone insane. 

Insanity feels good.

\--

Vetis leads him under an El track, the train clattering above them. Dust shakes itself loose and settles on Sam's shoulders. He reaches up to wipe it off then realises: he's not with Dean. Vetis hums when Sam lets a piece of his power float free and burn the pieces of dust into smoke. It's a waste of talent, he thinks, but Pride would say that Sam's powerful enough to waste whatever he wants and Lilith would slide a hand over his neck and tell him that using gifts that make him what he is will never be wasteful. 

It feels good. It relieves some pressure at the base of his spine, pressure that Sam's never quite aware of until it disappears, as if he's too used to carrying that weight around. Kundalini, Sam thinks, then laughs at himself.

"We're here," Vetis says, unnecessarily, really, as he's stopped and is standing in front of a perfectly normal door with five deadbolts. 

Sam nods, waits, and watches as Vetis knocks. There's no pattern, no secret code, and Sam half-wonders why they need to knock in the first place; Vetis is a demon, Sam might as well be, and the others inside should recognise that. Still, it takes a moment for anyone to answer the door. 

Each lock clicks open in succession and a woman peers around the door when it finally opens. She smiles when she sees Vetis but gapes at Sam. She leaves his sight. He can hear her running down the hall. 

"First level," Vetis explains, stepping forward. "Just above an imp, really. Sorry." 

Sam nods in understanding, first, then shakes his head and says, "No need to apologise. I'm sure," he adds with a tight smile, "that we're all getting used to things." 

Vetis just hums before entering the house. Sam follows the demon, locks each deadbolt after closing the door. Vetis leads him down a hallway to a basement door. He opens it and the noise is deafening. 

Sam grins, the first time since he left Dean back in the bar. "Muffling spell," he says. "Clever." 

Vetis beams, returning the smile, and says, "And several masking spells. Lilith gave them to us." Vetis stops, asks, "Should I go first or would you like to surprise everyone?" 

To be announced, like he's some kind of celebrity, when he can't even stop Dean from sending some of his people back to hell, when he's hiding everything he is? No, Sam won't have that. He's proud, yes, but he knows his own limitations. He knows how much he fails to live up to his title. "I'll go," he says, and if Vetis' expression falters a little, Sam won't mention it. 

He steps down the staircase lightly, letting his gifts flare outward, test the limits of Lilith's spells. They're perfect, of course, and he lets down every barrier in relief, knowing he's safe. 

It's dark and there's a bass beat thumping, stereotypical vampire hang-out. When Sam gets to the bottom of the staircase and turns the corner, there are no vampires. There are demons instead, and every single one of them is on bended knee. Lights flash around them, strobes of all colours, and bounce off of black walls, black leather furniture, a bar in the corner with every bottle imaginable, a frothing cauldron of water from the Styx.

Sam turns to Vetis, who followed him down, and the demon shrugs. "Your gifts. They're." He stops, looks as if he's resisting the urge to do as his brethren have done. "Intoxicating," Vetis purrs. "And you are our prince. Is it not right we give you respect?" He reaches out, lets one hand hover above Sam's shoulder, clearly waiting for Sam's permission. 

"Thank you," Sam says to the larger crowd. He feels uncomfortable like this and hates it. Sam reaches up, strokes the skin of his neck, wishing for a collar he doesn't have. "Just, I. Pretend I'm not here." 

One or two stand up, then, understanding him; as they move, others follow. Soon enough, the party's back in full swing. Some of the demons are dancing, some are writhing in groups of two and three and more on the floor or against one of the walls, some are using knives and needles and whips on one another. This is a haven for them as much as it is a safe place -- they can be who they are, inside of their human hosts, without the pretense that humanity requires of them. 

"See something you like?" Vetis asks. Sam lets his eyes ghost over the crowd of demons and then turns to Vetis: a demon of corruption, from the eighth circle. Vetis corrupts politicians, mostly, princes of government, by tempting them away from the representation of justice and their vows. Sam could pick worse, he knows. Vetis was one of the first after those in the ninth to eat and drink of him. 

He reaches out, lets his fingers trace the curve of the body Vetis is inhabiting. The human must be vain, takes good care of his body, has a strong jawline and Sam can see the curve of muscle under expensive clothes and jewellery. Sam tilts his head, decides that Vetis' host looks good in suit trousers and a black button-up, sleeves rolled up almost to the elbows, Rolex glittering on the left wrist. Sam lets his hand drop to his side and Vetis lifts his but doesn't touch, still waiting for permission. Sam inclines his head and the demon's hand settles on Sam's shoulder. 

Vetis squeezes, then, buoyed by the permission in Sam's eyes, lets his fingers trail upwards. Long, strong fingers caress the curve of Sam's neck, almost as if tracing lines Lilith's collar has left behind, then rise to Sam's face, careful, reverent. Sam closes his eyes as Vetis' nails catch on his cheekbones, as the pad of one finger strokes down Sam's nose then across Sam's brow. 

There's a weight in the air and Sam opens his eyes as if he might be able to see it there. Vetis watches him closely; when Sam doesn't retract permission and doesn't say anything else, Vetis asks, "May I do more? Is there." The demon trails off as Sam starts at the crack of a whip. "Any of us here," Vetis says. "We'd do anything." 

Sam laughs, a self-deprecating laugh, and says, "Even though I've failed. Even after everything I haven't been able to do, even though we're on earth." 

"You've done more for us than any of us would have ever thought possible," Vetis says, flatly. Sam looks at the demon and sees that the demon's eyes are shining bright with argument. "We're _demons_. We don't expect a revolution. We expect that you think of us. And you do. With every breath you have, you think of us. You're protecting us by sacrificing yourself, _again_. We know our time is coming, just as yours is coming. We're not stupid like humans to think it's now and we're not idiotic like angels to think it'll be easy. You're a part of us, prince, and if Proserpine hasn't gotten through to you, then we will. You belong to us, and we to you. Where we are, what we do, none of it matters beside that fact. Everything else will happen in its time." 

Vetis is breathing heavy, fists bunched at his sides. Sam is touched. He nods, giving in to Vetis' passion, and sees why so many politicians might stray at the sound of this demon's voice. Vetis' words have power, hold sway, and some of the guilt Sam's been carrying since the _shedim_ 's exorcism, added to with every day, with every successful hunt, falls away. 

The demon calms and asks, again, "May I do anything for you, prince?" 

Sam holds the demon's gaze and his eyes burn like hellfire. "You have done too much," he says. As Vetis' expression falls, Sam adds, "But there is one thing, if you're willing." The demon stands straighter, almost snapping to attention, and follows Sam's eyes to the rack of whips and floggers. 

\--

Sam unlocks the motel room door with his key, the action pulling at sore muscles. He stops when he sees Dean sitting on the edge of his bed, shoes and coat still on, looking up at him. 

"Just get in?" Sam asks, casual as he can, taking the key out and closing the door behind him, just in case Dean wants to argue about this, wants to start a fight. "I didn't see the Impala."

"Had to park 'round the other side," Dean replies, not moving. "Lot was full."

Dean's eyes are roaming Sam's body, looking for injuries. Sam's perversely glad he asked Vetis for something that wouldn't leave marks through his t-shirt. He thinks about taking his hoodie off, decides to wait. "Have fun?" he asks, walking over to the small table and getting a glass, unwrapping the plastic while he waits for an answer instead of looking at his brother.

"Yeah," Dean says. "You? Expected you to be here by the time I got back."

Sam apologises even though both of them know he doesn't mean it. "I lost track of time." He pauses, then adds, "You didn't have to wait up for me." 

Dean shakes his head, replies, "Wasn't," right away. "Thought about going out to grab a six-pack and then you got back. Guess I'll just stay in for the night." 

"Don't stop on my account," Sam says, and goes into the bathroom. He pulls his hoodie off, grimacing at the way his muscles protest, feeling a heady rush of arousal at the same movement. It aches, but it aches _good_ , the way it never did before Sycorax. Brushing his teeth, pissing, washing his face, it doesn't take that long, and he steels himself before opening the door and crossing the room for his pajamas. Dean watches him and Sam doesn't falter once. 

When he's lying in bed, he congratulates himself for that and makes sure all of his barriers are back up. 

He misses the demons already.


	6. Chapter 6

They keep hunting. Even with Azazel dead, with Dean's deal gone and bought out, they keep hunting. There are more demons than ever and now that Sam's not searching for a way out of Dean's bargain, they have the time to devote to pushing them back to hell one at a time. Dean keeps muttering about how many they let out of the Gate in Wyoming. Sam doesn't think that many of them fresh from the Gate are behaving too noticeably; all of the ones they exorcise have been out for years, even decades, and are getting cocky. It makes the exorcisms easier, even when they're calling him general and begging for forgiveness, Dean watching with jaw clenched. Sam can think of this as punishment, as his way of chastisement for getting caught. Most take it as such. 

There are other hunts, too: ghosts and poltergeists and all manner of creatures. Some of them are easier than others but they never come close to dying. Dean gets jumped by a pack of _wolpertinger_ \-- decrying their existence the entire time -- in Wisconsin and spends two weeks bedridden and driving Sam insane. Sam returns the favour by getting his mind fried after an alchemist with a recreation of one of Thor's thunderbolts triggered a reaction from his power. 

They never make it to the Grand Canyon.

Dean drinks a lot and never talks to Sam about anything more serious than the hunts they're on. He goes out and fucks a different woman every night; in his more spiteful moments, Sam thinks that these nameless, faceless women get more of his brother than he does. Sam tries to put Lust's thoughts out of his mind but finds it nearly impossible. 

As much as Dean goes out, Sam does as well. He finds a group of demons near every place they stop; whether they're normally there or following him, Sam doesn't ask and doesn't care. The demons seem pleased to meet him though none of them think he's doing well. The first few ask when he's going to unleash Armageddon but quickly spread the word that Sam will do so when he's damn well good and ready and pushing the issue won't help. 

Just as Dean seems to be letting out tension with booze, women, and killing things, Sam lets his out, though his methods are different. He never lets the demons break the skin but they flog him and beat him and stretch him and push him to his knees; they push his joints back into place, bandage him, cover him with kisses and lotion and their worship. Dean never says anything about the bruises. 

Every so often Ruby swings by. She always waits until Sam's alone, whether he's in the motel room and watching Dean leave for another night or at the library, doing research while Dean's out interviewing civilians. They fuck and don't say much else -- there's no need to. Ruby is his princess and Sam is her prince, she's eaten of his willingly given flesh and he's joined with her on a level that he hadn't ever reached with Lilith. 

She comes to him again when he and Dean are hunting a rogue thunderbird. A few people have claimed to see one and there's an urban legend linking thunderbirds to this stretch of Arizona desert. Apparently a couple of cowboys nailed one to a barn in the late eighteen-hundreds; Dean's sure this is the same one and that the cowboys didn't finish the kill. Sam's convinced it's a different thunderbird, maybe seeking vengeance, maybe drawn to this area for some reason. 

They argue about it like they argue about a lot of things now: Dean says something, Sam disagrees, Dean pushes the issue, Sam shuts down, Dean leaves. It's a cycle Sam's getting fed up with but he can't stop. He's too scared of saying something that would better be kept secret, something that Wrath would be proud of, and so he doesn't say anything at all, locked in a loop that gets harder to break out of with every day. Dean looks as if he'd like to fight about it, not with words but with hands and feet, but he won't let himself, like he's holding himself back from tearing Sam to pieces. Even as teenagers it wasn't this bad. It all comes back to hell. 

He's brooding about it again, ceaselessly, alone in the room after Dean stormed out, muttering something about tracking down an old photograph if he can, making a snide throw-away comment on Sam's inability to help. Dean's been gone five minutes and an ache in Sam's palms makes him move, snap out of a red haze that just wants to make something, someone, anything, _hurt_. He looks down, sees that his palms are bleeding in little crescent-moon shapes from his nails. 

Sam sighs, goes into the bathroom to rinse them off. Ruby is sitting on the edge of the bed when he comes out, her legs spread wide, shirt and jacket in a pile on the floor, look on her face bringing back Sam's fury.

"Dean getting on your nerves?" she asks, like she doesn't already know. "Ever think maybe hell was wrong to accept you in his place? It's not like his soul's really worth all of this torment you've put yourself through." She pauses, cocks her head to one side, lets her eyes flood back, and adds, "And are _still_ putting yourself through. We could set up a lottery, make a mint giving everyone the chance to kill him. I bet some of them would be really creative, too. Could you imagine what the second." 

" _Shut. Up_ ," Sam hisses, interrupting her. He's clenching his fists again, nails digging in to the same marks as before, breaking open fragile clots. 

Ruby leans forward, smiles at him, and purrs, "Make me." 

Fighting back his first instinct -- to go over there and plant his fist in her smug fucking face -- Sam smirks. Ruby's left eye twitches but she keeps her mouth closed as Sam's eyes rake down her body. Blonde hair in loose curls, today, thrown behind the smooth curve of her shoulders, the black bra standing out against her tan, pushing her tits up like some kind of offering, her flat stomach, tight jeans low on her hips, fuck-me boots. Absolutely ridiculous for hunting unless she's hunting Sam, in which case, still absolutely ridiculous. 

He can't decide whether to pull her off of the bed by her hair, push to her knees and fuck her mouth to keep it from talking, or if he'd rather lay her flat on the bed and eat her out until she's begging. It's a tough decision. Having done both before, he knows just how yielding her mouth can be, just how far he can get his dick down her throat. He knows how she writhes and how hard to lick her pussy and when to bite her clit and the taste of her orgasm on his tongue and lips. 

He'd still like to punch her lights out. 

Sam hasn't said anything so Ruby shrugs, leans her weight back on her elbows, pelvis thrust forward, and starts talking again. "The seventh Bolgia would like to get him, I'm sure," she says. "How would they do it? I mean, tradition is all well and good but this is Dean fucking Winchester we're talking about, enemy of our kind, murderer of our king. He gave us you, though, so maybe they'd give him a little leeway, make it, oh, five seconds quicker out of mercy." Ruby's smirking, yes, but her eyes aren't. She's watching him, treading carefully for all that she looks careless. 

A grin makes her flinch before she can stop herself. Sam's on the verge of laughter and Ruby's eyes are narrowed. "Dean didn't really give me to you," he says, placidly arguing. "Your mother thought the same thing, but it was another one of Azazel's kids who sentenced me to hell the first time. It's not my fault your mother couldn't hold on to me. The crossroads demon should never have made the deal, not when I was already there. I think," Sam starts to say, then pauses, takes a deep breath. "I think Lilith's lost perspective when it comes to me." 

Ruby flies to her feet, takes one step toward him, teeth bared. "My mother," she says, is all she can get out before Sam's in front of her, one finger tracing the curve of her cheekbone. Ruby's glaring, forcing breath through her teeth. 

"Your mother," Sam murmurs, "might be the queen of hell. But you're right in line for the throne, Ruby. You _are_ her heir. Maybe it's time to stop fighting her and fighting about her."

"I will," Ruby says, venom in her words, "when you will." 

Sam grins, hums. "Touché. And true enough." She seems taken aback by his easy acquiescence, enough for him to bend his head, lift his hands and cup her cheeks, turning her face upwards to his. He kisses her, gently, trailing his tongue across her bottom lip. Her hands settle on his hips, pull him closer, and the instant she digs her nails in, he throws her on the bed and pounces, teeth latched on one nipple through the material of her bra. She snarls and kicks him, scratches him hard enough to bleed but Sam doesn't react. He undoes her jeans and gets them down low enough to push two fingers inside of her, thumb brushing her clit, his other hand around her neck, holding her to the bed. 

She's dry, it has to hurt, but she doesn't seem to care, writhing underneath him in an effort to get her jeans off, pressing his head to her tits, back arched and breath coming in panted gasps. He loves seeing her like this, full of life, turning their fights into fucks and back again, never giving up, never letting Sam give up. 

He adds a third finger when she's wet and he's biting the smooth column of her neck, drawing blood and lapping up the liquid, savouring it on his tongue. "Fuck me," she growls, not begging, never begging. "Get your fucking dick out and _fuck me_." 

Sam grins, nips at the tip of her nose, and says, "No," before speeding up the rhythm of his fingers, pressing his thumb harder and harder against her clit until his nail's digging in as well. Every muscle in her body is a moment away from breaking in two from the tension and Sam takes his hand from her neck, scratches her thigh to feel the muscles and leave his mark. She snaps her teeth at him then howls as Sam adds a fourth finger, comes when he murmurs her true name against the fluttering pulse-point in her neck. 

He doesn't stop, doesn't show her any mercy, and she comes again before he finally slows down and stops, slithering down her body to lick her clean while she watches, eyes black, chest heaving for air. Sam saves his fingers for last, licks each one slowly, carefully, watching her the entire time. 

Ruby doesn't say anything until he's done; she twines her fingers in his hair, yanks and pushes in a way that leaves his head on the bed and the rest of him on the floor, some kind of guillotine-esque parody. She turns his neck, bares his throat, and bites down, hard. "Should've fucked me while you had the chance," she murmurs into his skin. "'Cause if you think I'm sucking your dick, think again."

"Didn't know my chances ever ran out," Sam replies, wincing when she pushes his face harder into the bed. She laughs but Sam reaches out with his power, lets down his barriers. Ruby sways, her grasp on Sam's hair loosening, and he sits up, unbuttons and unzips his jeans, letting his cock spring free. He's hard, leaking, and while Ruby's still zoning out on the feel of him, he pulls her off the bed, lowers her onto him, until he's inside her all the way. 

It feels like this is how it's meant to be. 

She looks at him, eyes wide, and whispers, "What have you done to me?" 

"Nothing you haven't done to me," Sam says, one hand pressed between her shoulderblades, the other cupping the curve of her ass. "A million times over."

Joined like this, princess and prince, lips touching as Ruby starts to ride him, Sam thinks he can hear Lilith laughing. 

He doesn't care.

\--

After they fuck, she coaxes him into getting dressed and hitting up the diner across the street. He's tired, worn-out from the fighting, the fucking, putting his barriers back up, but even if he had the energy, he doesn't want to argue with her. She doesn't come around often enough to waste time bickering about insignificant things. 

There's a bell over the door and the waitress glances at them and doesn't say more than to sit wherever they like. It's midday, hot with an unyielding sun beating down on the desert. The place is empty apart from them and one trucker chomping on a piece of cherry pie at the counter, watching highlights from last night's game on a black-and-white television. 

Ruby lifts her chin in the direction of the corner, gives Sam a raised eyebrow to ask if he approves. He shrugs, starts walking that way, and sits with his back to the wall. The red vinyl covering the booth squeaks as he sits down and scoots in; Ruby grins and flops down on hers. Sam rolls his eyes, grins, and thinks that he shouldn't be so comfortable with her, not with her being a demon, not knowing that his come is still inside of her, not knowing how it feels when she bites his neck and pants against his mouth. 

She can tell what he's thinking, he knows she can, and traces her lips with one finger, sucking on the tip. Sam flushes and the waitress comes over, bringing two plastic glasses of water, drops of condensation already sliding down the outside, ice on the inside melting fast. 

"What can I get for you two?" the waitress asks. Sam scans for a name-tag but she isn't wearing one. Either all of the regulars already know it or they don't expect many people to come through. Both would probably be good guesses. 

Ruby looks up at the woman and grins. "He'll have the burger with everything and a side of fries, Coke to drink, and I'll take a coffee." 

The waitress looks between them both, then nods, says, "Sure thing," and leaves with a backwards glance. 

"Proserpine," Sam scolds under his breath. "Blending in? Ever heard of it?" 

She kicks him under the table. Sam guesses that's fair. 

\--

"Have you decided who you're going to choose for your second yet?" she asks, reaching over the table and eating Sam's fries right off of his plate. That used to irritate him, now he finds it reassuring. If she didn't steal his food he'd know something was wrong with her. "Mother was asking and I said I'd raised the issue. She thinks it might be a good idea sooner rather than later." 

"You're talking to your mother again?" Sam asks. That has to be a new development. "Why was that a topic of discussion?" 

Ruby grimaces. "It was neutral. She wanted to talk about why I haven't tamed you yet and why you haven't blown up the planet yet and why no one's killed Dean yet. I figured talking about your second-in-command was a safer topic." 

Sam nods, letting out a deep breath. "Considering the alternatives, yeah, good call. But since when are you and Lilith on speaking terms? Not that I'm complaining," he adds, wanting that to be clear. "I think it's good. She's missed you." 

"I wanted to vent," she replies, grinning brightly, shoving another handful of fries in her mouth, losing a drop of ketchup along the way. At least this time she chews and swallows before speaking again. "And she took the call. It seemed the safe way to do things. But don't think you're avoiding my question. You picked a right hand?"

The waitress comes by, eyes them both like she's never quite seen people like Sam and Ruby before, and refills Ruby's coffee. "Get you two anything else?" she asks. 

"He'll have a piece of the apple pie," Ruby tells the waitress. Sam groans inwardly; Ruby's wearing her predatory look. Either the waitress is going to end up dead or very well fucked by the time tomorrow comes around. "With ice cream," Ruby adds. "Please." 

"Sure thing," the waitress says, and even though her words are casual, her hands are shaking. It must be instinct, Sam guesses, because a normal human wouldn't be scared of Ruby ordering pie and she is just a normal human, no trace of demonic or psychic gifts. 

Sam drinks to the waitress's instinct and doesn't say anything until the waitress comes and goes again. He pushes the bowl of pie a la mode to the middle of the table and waits for Ruby to dig in before he says, "I was thinking of Vetis." 

She swirls her tongue around the tip of the spoon, thinking over his choice. "An interesting message," she finally says, diplomatic and thoughtful. The trucker pays his bill and leaves, brim of his cap riding low over his eyes.

It _would_ be an interesting message, especially after a billion eternities with Sycorax serving as Lilith's enforcer. Sycorax, from the sixth circle, a demon of air and water who twisted people into heresy with slick words before becoming Lilith's right hand. Sycorax, who Shakespeare cast as a binder of spirits, a Medea-like witch with blue eyes and a child in Caliban. Sycorax, a demon that Lilith trusted with Sam, the heir to Azazel's throne. 

Vetis has none of the same characteristics. Sycorax was pleasant to listen to, could pull a syllogism from non-existent logic, sure, but his strength was in knowing where to press at a human in order to twist them and his tools were painful more often than not. Vetis is a talker and has no taste for blood. Where Sycorax would whip humanity into submission, Vetis prefers to give them the option to damn themselves. Sam likes that. He's always liked choice, not to mention free will. 

Sycorax hailed from the sixth circle originally, and there's only so far heresy can go, but Vetis is from the eighth and he'll urge people to commit deliberate sins from all over the spectrum. Sam has more taste for sins of commission these days; omission sits heavy in his throat. Besides, Vetis got through to him when even Ruby couldn't; if Vetis could touch Sam, he'll be able to touch anyone. 

"Lilith has her own ideas about submission," Sam finally replies. "Mine are." He pauses, takes a sip of his Coke, swirls a fry in the ketchup and offers it to Ruby. She leans forward, eats from his hand. "Different," he finishes. 

Ruby looks at him, blinking every so often. "I'm beginning to think mother has no idea what she's on the verge of unleashing," she admits. She doesn't look scared, though, more excited, less able to wait. "You'll corrupt them slowly, won't you." It's not a question. 

"I promised War an apocalypse." Sam doesn't take his eyes from Ruby's. He can feel them burning and wonders, abstractly, what they look like. Are they Azazel's eyes? Lilith's? Or something of his own? "A big one, with blood coating the earth, with despair and suspicion and death. Vetis will serve that promise and serve well." 

Sam doesn't say anything about how conflicted he is, making this decision, starting to walk in the steps that his father laid out for him, that he promised to War and Death and all of the others. He's still human enough to hate this but he's demon enough, changed enough, that he knows he has to honour his promises and -- even more worrying -- that at some point down the road, hopefully far, far down the road, he'll _want_ the apocalypse he swore to provide. 

Putting plans in place now means he won't have to worry about it for a while, means that the demons will lay off a little, satisfied and appeased for this moment and the next few. After that, when they start clamouring again, he'll take the next step. A slow corruption, easing humanity into hanging themselves -- maybe if he does that he won't need an apocalypse. Maybe if he does that, they'll put themselves in hell or heaven without any interference from him.

He thinks all of this but he doesn't say it. He doesn't have to.

Ruby nods, sips her coffee, grimaces at the taste and adds four packets of sugar. 

\--

Ruby pulls a wad of one-dollar bills out of her back pocket when she stands up. Sam sighs, mutters something about blending in that has Ruby smirking. She walks to the counter and says, "Hope this covers it," tossing the lot down for the waitress, before walking out. 

Sam shakes his head, takes Ruby's money back and gives the waitress a twenty. "I'm sorry about her," he says. "It's been a rough week. Keep the change?"

"Sure thing, sugar," the waitress replies. She has a kind smile; Sam feels sorry for her. "Don't worry 'bout your girlfriend. She'll be right as rain, no time at all."

If anyone's going to tell this woman that she's dead wrong, it's not going to be Sam. He smiles, doesn't argue, and leaves, bell jangling as the door moves. He looks around, doesn't see Ruby until he crosses the street and opens the door to the motel room. She's inside, standing with her arms crossed, a look of total exasperation all over her face. It's an expression that makes sense when Sam gets a glimpse of the trucker from before, passed out cold on the floor, one of Ruby's boots pressing firmly on the trucker's chest. 

"Oh, don't give me that look," Ruby says, when all Sam can do is close the door, lean on it and look at her. "This is your mess. Deal with it." 

"Proserpine, _why_ ," is all Sam can get out before he starts laughing. 

Ruby rolls her eyes. "You made your choice, we agreed, do it now."

That sobers Sam up. "You mean, use him," he asks, nodding at the trucker. He bends down, checks for a pulse. The trucker's dead. "Summon Vetis? What if he doesn't want. What if he has something else going on?" 

"Are you," Ruby says, teeth clenched as she backs away, "or are you not his fucking prince? _Call him_. Get it over with." Sam looks at her, studies her, and can't think of a reason to _not_ do it. The human's dead and here already. He bites his lower lip, rubs his forehead, can't find any argument against it, per se. " _Well_?"

Sam lowers his barriers, follows the connection to Vetis and tugs lightly. He could pull, the way Ava did back in Cold Oak, force Vetis here, but he'd prefer not to. If Vetis is busy, he can feel free to ignore Sam's summons. 

Vetis, of course, does not. It's barely fifteen seconds before there's a black cloud hovering in the room. "In him," Sam says, gesturing at the trucker. Ruby steps back as Vetis possesses the trucker, opens black eyes and gets to his knees. Vetis looks at Sam, opens his mouth to say something, then sees Ruby. The trucker's face drains of colour as he looks between Sam and Ruby. 

"Prince," Vetis says, "and princess." He sounds stunned. Sam throws a look at Ruby, who gives him a ' _well, what are you waiting for_?' look, combined with a little amusement at how Vetis is reacting. Her amusement is contagious because she's right: if any other demon is going to be in the middle of absolutely nowhere with Sam, who did Vetis expect? 

"You've probably heard I'm in the market for a right hand," Sam says. 

Vetis' eyes flick to Sam's right hand and Sam almost, _almost_ , smacks his forehead. He'd thought this demon was intelligent. "Sorry," Vetis says. "Habit?" 

Ruby takes a deep breath and Sam reaches out, touches her arm. She settles but only barely. Vetis looks fascinated. 

"I've picked you." As soon as the words leave Sam's mouth, he can feel something stop, shift on its axis, start grinding in a different direction. He's just changed the way things are done, changed them drastically. He wonders if it's a good decision then wipes away his doubt; he can't afford that. Vetis is gaping in disbelief. Sam lifts an eyebrow, tilts his head, and says, "If you want the position, that is." 

Vetis collects himself, nods once. "An honour, prince. I look forward to the challenges. Your orders?" 

Sam gives Vetis a wry smile. "It's a little more complicated than that," he says. "Stand up." Vetis does, looks puzzled, and Sam asks Ruby without turning from the trucker's body, "Your mother's choice of Sycorax. Did she cement that publicly?" 

"No," Ruby says, plain and simple. "Very few ever knew how it was done." 

Vetis does everything except salute as he snaps to attention and says, "Prince, you may count on my discretion." 

Ruby snorts and Sam gives Vetis a patient smile. "Yes, I know. But do you trust me?" 

Among demons, that's not a light question. Demons high in the chain of command might ally with one another for millennia without any trust between the two; it takes more than time for demons to develop that kind of relationship. Sam and Ruby, that's half demonic genetics, at this point, and the only other demons he trusts are those he's been with his entire life, in one form or another: Lilith, Lust, Wrath, Pride. He doesn't necessarily like them but trust runs deeper than mere like or dislike. 

Vetis looks thoughtful at that question, gives it time, and finally meets Sam's eyes, smile playing about the corners of his lips. "You know, prince, I believe I do." 

Sam nods, turns to look at Ruby. "Oh, you know I will," she says, moving to stand next to Sam, bumping him with her hip. "Get the fuck on with it already, would you? No telling when Dean'll come back." 

"So pushy," Sam mutters, bumping her in return. He closes his eyes, focuses, and, when he opens them again, he can see the way he did when he was in hell, hanging from the cross. Proserpine's blazing black, deeper and darker than night, the edges of her cloud moving in and out of Sam's, his doing the same. They're joined at a level beyond anything Sam's ever seen; not that he's ever used this talent outside of hell before, but his and Ruby's connection is much, much deeper than even his and Lilith's. He wonders why and how, if it's because of their positions or their heritage, or even the way that Proserpine bound herself to Sam, kneeling and reverent in the midst of ritual.

Ruby looks at him, smile on her face. If she knows, she won't tell him. 

Sam turns to Vetis, the glimmering, glossy cloud he remembers all too well. With Vetis holding himself statue-still, Sam reaches out, puts his hand through the trucker's chest, and pulls the cloud out so that Vetis is formless, screaming in agony with the touch. Sam tears a piece of Vetis off, opens his mouth and swallows it, sweet like candy-floss and just as intangible. 

Sam reaches up to his own demonic nature, uses his nails to pry a piece of it apart, off of him, and feels like someone's just carved out his heart. He sways, almost comes, but manages to meld that part of him with Vetis, covering the hole in Vetis. As soon as he does, something between them _clicks_ into place. He knew Vetis before but now he _knows_ the demon, can tell what the demon's thinking, feeling, yearning for. 

He shoves Vetis back into the trucker, lying on the floor with a gaping hole in the middle of his chest. The demon settles in and Sam nearly loses his balance, leaning on Ruby for support she freely offers. "Can't ever do things the easy way," she mutters. 

"No," Sam replies. "Not once. How do you feel?" he asks Vetis. 

Vetis blinks, shakes his head. "I can _feel_ you," he says, looking up at Sam and Ruby, awestruck. "I. You're." Sam grins with fond amusement and Vetis gapes. "I felt that. How?"

"You're a part of me," Sam says. "My right hand. It's not entirely figurative. Every action you take is an extension of my will and every thought you have is one of my own. We're joined and connected so that you can act and speak in my place."

"My prince," Vetis murmurs, getting to his knees, crawling to Sam and nuzzling at Sam's crotch. "You've honoured me so highly. I will, anything you ask, for all time." 

Sam sighs, runs his hand over the trucker's thinning hair, and pushes Vetis away. "Take this body away from here, at least an hour's drive," he says, "then find yourself a new one."

"Someone prettier," Ruby adds, chiming in. "This one was expedient; don't ever get inside a meat-suit like this again. Sam likes them pretty. Of either gender," she says, winking at Vetis. He looks gobsmacked. "His right hand," Ruby says, glimmer in her eyes. "The rhythm in his left isn't as good." 

Vetis looks at Sam with a coy smile, something inherently disturbing on a trucker's face, paunch sticking out from under flannel, thinning hair greasy and unkempt. Sam smacks Ruby on the back of her head and gives her a look when she glares at him. 

"It's true," she mutters. "And not just on yourself." 

"You two, _out_ ," Sam orders. "Vetis, back to Chicago and your regular temptations for now. You'll know when I want that to change." 

He slinks out, also disturbing to watch, and Ruby asks, "And me, oh great and mighty one?" with the most innocent and earnest tone she can create. 

It's disturbing. 

Sam snorts. "As if I could ever give you an order you'd follow," he says, before reaching up, brushing a piece of hair off of her face. "Just, you know, be careful. And say hello to your mother for me the next time you call her. Please." 

Ruby's smile looks more like _her_ as she leans up, gives Sam a kiss. "Better come up with a story about that bite on your neck," she says. "Catch you 'round." 

\--

Dean doesn't ask about it, when he gets back later, lips swollen and smelling of smoke. He doesn't ask about much these days, except when something will come up to remind him that he doesn't know specifically what Sam went through in hell, why he accepted the _shedim_ and witch and every subsequent demon calling him general, what word he said in what language to summon Lilith to the surface. 

Sam never gives up any information, never tells his brother anything that Dean wants to know, no matter how much he wants to. 

When Dean gets tired of distance, tired of never having answers, tired of Sam's evasion and unwillingness to talk, he picks a fight. They all start out with something stupid but quickly escalate to the real meat of the matter, and they're always left unresolved, cycles interrupted by stops for food, by hunts, by sleep. 

They are further away from each other now than when they were separated by dimensions. 

\--

Sam lets out a breath, readjusts his grip on the gun. He can see Dean's signal out of the corner of his eye and shakes his head; they have no idea where the _loup-garou_ is. Dean gives the signal again, Sam shakes his head again, but Dean moves anyway. With no other choice, Sam follows his brother's lead. 

The ground squelches beneath his feet but he's moving lighter than Dean, playing the hunter to Dean's bait; a piece of kudzu gets pushed out of the way and Sam scans his surroundings. He might be used to the heat of hell but he hates humidity and if there's one thing the Louisiana wetlands have year-round, it's humidity. A snake hisses at him from its perch high in a tree. Sam ignores it and keeps Dean in his sights. 

Dean's still upset with Sam over a disagreement they had two days earlier. Sam likes to call it a disagreement because neither of them screamed or left or ended up bleeding; this one was just words and though they hurt, Sam's becoming desensitised to them. _You're a fucking asshole and I'm not giving up on this, I will hound you like one of those damn dogs until you give me something, now shut the fuck up if you're not saying anything else and get your ass in the car_ , Dean had said -- well, the gist of his tirade, anyway. Sam had listened, didn't give any hint he'd heard his brother, and gotten his ass in the car. 

The drive to Louisiana was silent and the noise now, hunting out here in wetlands where no sane person ever goes is sort of comforting. Sam pauses, seeing an alligator on the other side of a small clearing, keeps walking with one eye on her after she blinks and turns away. Obviously the _loup-garou_ isn't close; it's hunter fact that alligators don't tend to take a _loup-garou_ 's presence very well. 

Sam stalks his brother, still looking, and freezes when he hears a splash. Dean stops as well, looks back, and his eyes go wide. Sam lets go of his power, senses a crazed mind behind him, and ducks, rolls. 

Dean's running back now and the _loup-garou_ 's leaping on Sam, teeth snapping, claws digging in. "Sam!" Dean calls out, and then there's a gun shot and the _loup-garou_ howls in a mix of rage and pain. Sam understands the feeling and shoots. 

A whimper and Sam pushes himself up, stands there and unloads his entire clip right into the _loup-garou_ 's head, heart slowing down as he sees the blood pouring out. Dean's there, then, one hand on Sam's shoulder, turning Sam around. 

"Fuck," he says, taking in the blood from the _loup-garou_ 's claws. "Did it bite you?" Claw marks leave scars but bites have the disarming property of turning the victim into a shifter, animal changing from person to person depending on genetic affinity and personal preference. Sam doesn't want to say that if Madison didn't change him, if the virus in River Grove didn't affect him, these won't. 

"No," Sam says. "Just the claws. We should get out of here before anything scents blood." Dean's staring, horrified, so Sam says it again, slower. "Dean, we should leave. The blood."

Dean swallows, says, "Yeah," and urges Sam back to the car. Once they're in, weapons stowed, Dean hightails it back to the room, sits Sam down and almost runs to the bathroom for water and towels despite how small the room is. Dean is panicked, that much is clear to see, and probably already blaming himself. Sam smells guilt and winces, pulling his senses back into the realm of normal humanity. He doesn't want to smell guilt on his brother, that and wrath. 

Sam looks down at his arm, flexes the muscles. A white-hot line of pain shoots from his forearm up to his shoulder, travels down his spine. His body breaks out in goosebumps and his dick twitches. A five-inch long slice along the skin, parallel to the lines of his veins but not quite as deep. It's not as bad as the time Sycorax pinned open his skin and used a butter knife to saw away at his muscles, tendons, snapping them and then lighting them on fire, definitely not as bad as that, but it still hurts, hurts differently here. 

He bites his lip, makes a fist and feels it again, pain making him dizzy, turning the room into a whirling carnival of lights and sounds. 

"Sam?" Dean says, dropping to his knees at the side of the bed, reaching for alcohol and holy water. "Shit, what the hell are you doing?" 

"Hell," Sam says, quiet and thoughtful. Dean's face pales as he disinfects the area; he's been trying so hard not to bring it up since their most recent argument. Sam's not fooled, though. "Hmm." 

Dean slides the needle in a little too quick, too deep, and Sam flinches. "Dude, I'm sorry," Dean says. He sounds like he's apologising for more than his awful surgical skill. Dean bites his lip. Sam wonders if it will break open and bleed. 

"It's all right." Sam just hopes Dean doesn't see how _much_ it's all right. 

\--

When he's sewn up, before Dean can put bandages over the stitches, Sam gets up, takes a shower, and jerks off, leaning against the shower wall. He thinks of Ruby, thinks of Sycorax and Lilith, thinks of Dean, sitting on the other side of cardboard-thin walls and castigating himself.

The stitches haven't had time to settle in and Dean had been alternately pulling them too tight and leaving them too loose, scared to hurt Sam and furious at himself for putting Sam in this position. Telling Dean it wasn't his fault, that's not going to go over at all, much less well, so Sam kept his mouth shut. 

Now, here, water scalding his skin and turning it bright red, feet burning as the drain struggles to keep up, Sam picks at the topmost stitch until he feels the sting of broken flesh. When he comes, the water's pink with blood.

\--

They finish a hunt in Miami and Dean gets wasted in celebration. Sam leaves his brother asleep in the motel room, drooling over a pillow, and calls a taxi to take him downtown. Miami is a city of corruption, bright lights and fast cars, Sam thinks, looking out of the window as his taxi speeds closer to the entertainment district. The people here come from everywhere to let loose, the oceanic Vegas with different prizes up for stakes, different methods of gambling, and the tang of sin fills Sam's nose, covers his skin like silk. A hundred different languages, a thousand different beats, and yet the drums are all variations on a theme. The Midwest and its Bible Belt, scurrying shameful little sins, the prim New England states and their decadent legacies, they have their attractions but this, oh, this is every indulgence on gratuitous display. 

He could get to like it here if he let go. 

The taxi drops him off in front of an expensive-looking club, the driver saying something about a cover, a dress code. Sam ignores him and pays the man, saying he'll be fine. He can feel the demons inside, that sick sense of homecoming and safety he's come to associate with havens and places of demonic refuge. He drops his first barrier at the door and the bouncer inclines his head and lets Sam through; humans in line complain and the bouncer bares his teeth at them all. 

Inside, the music is loud, the alcohol is flowing freely, and if there were ever a picture in the dictionary to define a modern day den of ill repute, this would be it. Clothes are minimal, drugs are plentiful, and Sam sees guns, knives, needles everywhere he looks. Every level of hell is represented here, from the slothful in one corner watching the grinding on the dance floor, to the greedy doing shady business deals near the bar, to the woman currently giving a senator a blowjob in the middle of a crowd of powerful men. 

Sam breathes easier, lets his power flow free, and every demon in the place sways, turning to face him like flowers turn to follow the sun. They don't kneel but, then again, there are humans here who wouldn't understand. He nods, smiles, and a moment later there are two demons approaching him, a woman with swaying hips, carrying a tray of shots, and a man in a suit. 

The woman murmurs, "Open, sesame," and tilts a shot of tequila down Sam's throat when he complies. She leans forward, licks a drop off of his lip, and Sam tries not to think of Dean, passed out back in their motel room. When she kisses him, he kisses back, sighing when she bites. "Welcome, prince," she says, and then leaves, looking at Sam over her shoulder, watching him watch her walk away. 

"Yes, welcome," the man says when he's close enough to be heard. "We were hoping you would drop by; we've become a little jealous, hearing from our comrades in other places. Guesses as to the location of your next appearance have spawned a great deal of gambling." 

Sam eyes the man, eyes the demon buried inside. A marquis of hell, used to having thirty-one legions under his command -- Agares seems to have taken to the earthly equivalent with aplomb. "Thank you," Sam says, smiling relaxed and easy. "I hope you've just won something worthwhile?" 

Agares smirks, eyes casting over the dance floor. "Oh, yes, general. Very worthwhile. Now, as you're here, would you like to stay on the main floor and watch us at work? Or there's the dungeon, of course." 

A shiver rolls up Sam's spine, manifests itself in goosebumps on the back of his neck. "As much as I would love to view your methods," he says, "I'm here for a reason. But thank you for not assuming, Agares." 

"Of course," Agares says, turning to face Sam, inclining his head and smiling. "If you would follow me?"

"Lead on," Sam murmurs under his breath. He looks around, can't help the snort as he witnesses a group of college students cheering on another as he downs shots as fast possible. 

Agares leads him through the edges of the crowd and Sam sees all manner of things. He avoided places like this when he was at Stanford, never felt comfortable in them, and at the time he thought it was because he grew up in little townie bars, country places with one kind of beer on tap and a jukebox in the corner. These kinds of clubs were too sleek, too mass-marketed, catering to the rich and beautiful with little time to waste on anybody else. 

Back then he was uncomfortable with seeing so much open vice but now, after Lilith, after surviving the seven deadly sins, he finds a certain amount of humour in bar fights, a certain fondness for scantily clad women, a certain empathy for those high or stoned or lit up. It's echoes of Wrath and Lust and Greed in the humans they tempt, and Sam feels closer to Pride than ever when he thinks that none of these people will ever know whose presence they were in tonight. 

He follows Agares to an unmarked door, then through it. The hallway is dimly lit and there are stylised symbols painted on the walls; only those invited will be able to enter and pass through. Sam thinks of Dean, thinks of how it feels to leave his brother behind and come to a place like this, and goes down the steps after Agares. 

If it was dimly lit upstairs, the downstairs is dark, clean but dark, lit by candles and chunks of burning hellfire. Sam inhales the smell and can't help reaching up to touch his neck, the scent bringing Lilith to mind as so much does. Agares sees the motion but says nothing, merely gestures for Sam to enter a room. 

Manacles are attached to the walls, chains long and kept in good condition. There's a rack of whips and canes, a table covered in knives that look lovingly cared for, a blindfold and a ball gag. Sam pauses, looking around, taking the room in, the waist-high black paint on the walls, the drain in one corner on the floor, the hook coming down from the ceiling. 

"Will this serve, general?" Agares asks. When Sam nods, not trusting his voice, the demon asks, "And who shall you take as your honoured, this evening?"

Sam sends his power out, catalogues the demons present in the club. Agares is the ranking demon but his strength lies in teaching immorality and whipping up the destruction of dignity, perfect for running a club of this nature but not specifically tuned for what Sam wants. There is a demon here, though, who is skilled in punishment and torture, who has caused pain in untold millions and has it down to a fine art. Sam wants pain; he has already given his dignity over to Lilith. 

"Sonneillon is here," Sam says after a moment. "He'll do."

Agares nods and leaves, comes back five minutes later with a young man. Sam meets the man's eyes, traces the black, and says, "Sonneillon. Will you serve?" 

Sonneillon drops to one knee and looks up at Sam with a wicked smile on his face. "It would be my pleasure, prince," he purrs. Sam studies the host's body, tall and muscular, pretty, with defined cheekbones and bruised knuckles. Evidently word has spread of Sam's preferences. "You have only to tell me what you desire." 

Sam holds the demon's gaze, then nods. Agares leaves with a half-bow, closes the door behind him. "Undress me," he says, after a moment. "And then chain me. You needn't bother with the blindfold or the gag. I want a singletail whip, preferably kangaroo but whatever Agares has is fine. You don't need to start slow and an audience is fine." He pauses, decides that he has a few days before the next hunt, that he can afford to indulge himself, and adds, "You may draw blood." 

The demon stands, approaches Sam, takes Sam's cheeks in his hands and kisses Sam with tongue and teeth. Sam kisses back, can't not at the taste of corruption, not as honeyed as Ruby or as intense as Lilith but with a salt-sea undertone that stings when it hits blood. 

Sonneillon undresses Sam quickly, efficiently, folds the clothes and leaves them in the corner. He manages to get his hands on every inch of Sam's body, stroking and caressing until Sam's half-hard from the attention. The demon sees Sam's response, smiles but doesn't say anything as he positions Sam in the middle of the room. Sam holds out his arms to his sides, parallel to the floor, and lets Sonneillon attach the manacles to his wrists, tests the restraints. He won't be able to move much beyond arching; the chains are screwed in tight to the wall. Sam's facing the door, the rack of whips behind him, and as he's standing there, listening to Sonneillon pick one, the wall turns to glass. Demons are thronging outside to watch and Sam's eyes fall to the ground as Sonneillon moves. 

He takes a deep breath, lets it out and relaxes his muscles as best he can when anticipation and fear are running together through his body. Sonneillon waits, draws out the tension until Sam's blood is thrumming in want, and then flicks the whip. 

It cracks before it hits Sam and the pain takes a moment to sink in past auditory recognition. Sam jumps at the noise, then groans when he feels the skin on his back break apart and bleed. He hadn't wanted Sonneillon to warm him up and so the demon hadn't; Sonneillon's skill is great enough that the first strike lands true and hard and painful. 

Another, another, then another, and Sam's fighting the chains holding him in the middle of the room. It feels good, too good, and he wants to run, wants to hide, but Sonneillon keeps whipping and the demons outside are still watching. 

Sam loses himself in sensation. Blood is running down his back in ever-changing paths and it hurts to breathe. There's no pattern to the whipping, a few strokes in furious seconds, then a pause, then the tip barely grazing Sam's calves, then a red-hot line across the back of his thighs. Sonneillon keeps him off-balance, keeps him lost in a haze of pain, and for the first time in weeks, Sam feels settled, feels like something's _right_.

He settles into the strokes, finds himself riding them out, his mind shut down and thoughts blessedly silent. Sam closes his eyes, gives into the pain, the torture, and lets his power completely free of the barriers he's trapped it inside of. Sonneillon pauses when he does that but then redoubles his efforts, starting to grunt and moving around to land the whip in different places, marks criss-crossing over Sam's skin. 

There's only one thing missing and Sam feels the ache of its loss almost as intently as he can feel every new stroke Sonneillon is laying on him. His power flickers, filling the room and stopping the whip the next time it approaches his skin. Sonneillon moves to face Sam, worry written all over his face. 

"The hook in the ceiling," Sam says. It's meant to be used as a place to attach handcuffs to, stretching a person's arms vertically instead of horizontally, but that's not what Sam wants. "My neck," he says. He can't form words, too high from the endorphins running ragged through his body, can't do more than pant from the sheer wall of agony that his body has become.

"I understand," Sonneillon says, running his fingers down Sam's cheek before cupping his jaw. "Say no more." 

Sonneillon goes to the back of the room, finds a collar and a chain. He wraps the collar around Sam's neck, locking it in the back; Sam leans forward so that his hair won't get caught as the demon connects the chain to the ring. The other end of the chain gets attached to the hook, tight enough to allow Sam the barest of movements. He won't be able to hang his head, to lean to one side or another, without choking. 

He makes that mistake when Sonneillon begins again and promptly starts coughing, gasping for breath. Sonneillon stops but Sam shakes his head and says, "Stop only if I pass out." The demon murmurs his understanding and Sam's world devolves into light-headedness, black spots in his vision, lungs aching as much as the rest of him. He fights for every breath, the collar choking him before he can scream. He comes violently and still Sonneillon keeps whipping. 

\--

Sam isn't sure how long it lasts before something changes. The demons outside, he sees a handful of them leave; a lash or two later, the crowd in front of the room, still watching, parts with something bordering on panic. Sonneillon pauses. As Sam's about to chide the demon for stopping, his power batters up against something familiar. He's too far out of it to take any note, has been, but then he sees Dean. 

Dean is here. _Dean_. He's brandishing a crucifix and looking furious. The demons outside, they're snarling, hissing, and Dean looks ready to say a mass exorcism. "Wait," Sam croaks. The demons move back, away from Dean. Dean hasn't heard him. " _Dean_ ," he tries calling out, voice failing as he descends into coughs. 

Dean turns at that, looks into the room. Sam's eyes are watering but he can see the moment that Dean realises what's going on, putting whip and chains and Sam together and coming up with something that horrifies him. Dean strides for the door, throws it open, and is about to say something to Sonneillon. 

"I asked him to," Sam says. He wants to collapse, let the chains on his arms hold him upright, but the one connecting his neck to the ceiling won't give. "I asked for this." 

" _Jesus_ ," Dean murmurs. Sonneillon flinches and so does Sam, his power reacting to the name of God's son. "Fuck, Sam. This is." He stops, words failing him, then visibly gathers himself. "Take everything off him," he orders. Sonneillon doesn't move, waiting for Sam to say something, anything, so Dean growls it this time. "Take everything off of him. _Now_." 

Sonneillon's fingers rest lightly on Sam's neck, over the collar. Sam nods, once, and the demon unlocks the collar. Sam takes a deep breath, then another, careful of his neck, his throat, and practically collapses when Sonneillon undoes one of the manacles. Dean drops the crucifix to catch him, lowers him to the ground and cradles him gently, mindful of the whip marks all over his body.

Sam's vision blurs, goes dark, and he can feel Dean touching his face. "Sam? Sam, come on, okay? Don't pass out on me now; I think they'll eat me or something." 

"They won't," Sam says. It takes almost more energy than he has to speak. "How'd you find me?"

"Horehound in your jeans. Got Bobby to look me up a tracking spell and a masking one right after that." Dean's brushing hair out of Sam's face. Dean's skin is cool. 

Sam blinks, shudders, asks, "How'd you. Down here?"

Sonneillon is still there and the demon asks, "Can I," before stopping. Sam's pretty sure Dean just threw his look of death at the demon; Sonneillon shouldn't be scared but an ounce of caution goes a long way where Dean's concerned. 

"Some water," Sam says. "Something to clean off with. Dean, they can." 

"Absolutely not," Dean hisses, cutting his brother off. "Fuck no, they aren't touching you any more."

\--

Dean doesn't let go of Sam until Sonneillon and Agares bring towels, some of them dampened, and medical supplies. Dean washes him off, dries him, and then cleans and bandages the whip marks. A few of them are still bleeding sluggishly and Dean treats those with as gentle a touch as he has. Sam appreciates it but doesn't have the heart to tell Dean that rough treatment wouldn't be amiss. 

"General," Agares says, stepping forward. "We can help you dress, if you want." 

"Think you've done fucking enough," Dean snaps. "Stay away from him. He's my brother, my responsibility. If anyone's going to take care of him, _I_ will. I haven't spent the last two hours putting him in this condition."

Sam reaches out, touches Dean's knee. "Dean," he says. "They aren't." 

Dean growls. "I know you're not about to tell me I got this all wrong, Sam. And I know you're not about to ask me to let more of them touch you. I am so fucking pissed off at you right now it's unimaginable. So don't say another _word_ , you understand?" 

Sam opens his eyes, looks up at Dean. Dean's white with worry or rage, probably both. It's better not to argue with Dean when he gets in moods like this. Sam nods, closes his eyes again, lets Dean dress him and pull him upright, rests his weight against Dean when he can't seem to win the battle to stay both conscious and vertical. 

"I need to know anything to get out of here?" Dean asks. 

"There's a back way," Agares answers when Sam doesn't. "So you won't have to go through the crowd upstairs."

Dean nods and follows Agares out, down the hallway further until they come to a door. Dean opens it, helps Sam out. 

"If you need us," Sonneillon says. 

Before Sam can say anything, Dean lets the door slam. Sam manages to stay conscious, slumps across the Impala's backseat with relief, doesn't even react when Dean thumps into the driver's seat and turns the car on. Once they're out of the parking lot, Dean doing ninety on the highway, Sam succumbs to unconsciousness. 

It's a pleasant feeling. 

\--

The swim to consciousness is slow. Sam wakes up in stages, first with an awareness of the cuts all over his body, then with the sudden realisation that his barriers are completely down. He starts putting them back up, one layer after another, with a certain amount of thoughtlessness; he checks them every day on auto-pilot and recreating them has become an automatic process now. 

He wakes up a little bit more to find himself in bed; the pillow is soft under his head but flat and the sheets are itchy. They're in a motel, then, and the air conditioner's running, so they must still be in Miami. Sam shifts, grimaces at the way the movement makes the bandages on his back rub, and jumps when Dean speaks. 

"You must be used to worse if that didn't even get a sound," Dean says. He sounds blank, never a good sign when it comes to Dean. Sam opens his eyes and takes his time sitting up. He's stiff, wonders how long he's been asleep. 

He looks at Dean, sees his brother sitting on the other bed, just watching him. Sam sighs, resists the urge to rub his face. This isn't the way he wanted Dean to find out to what extent hell changed him, to what degree hell damaged him.

Dean stands up, starts pacing, before Sam can say anything. The only time he does that is when he's worried about Sam, seriously worried. Sam hates that he's driven Dean to that point but it's too late now. 

"So you're," Dean starts to say. He stops and his reflection in the window looks sickened. 

"A pain slut," Sam finishes, deadpan and dry. His throat aches. "Someone who gets off on pain. Even needs it. Yes." He gives a wry little laugh, tired and worn out from this conversation already, and adds, "All hail Sycorax," without thinking. 

Dean's face draws tight and he whirls to face Sam, hands bunched into fists at his sides. "The demon that took you," he says. "He. He _trained_ you? How long did it take? _How_?" 

Sam studies his brother's face, tilts his face to one side and asks, "Do you really want to know?" He's considering another lie if his brother says yes. Dean knows that every minute in hell lasts for an eternity but Sam has never told him what really happened during those eternities. Is this the time for Sam to confess the truth, to tell Dean that he was tortured down to ashes and put back together more times than he can remember, than he could list? 

Something of that must show on his face, because Dean turns green under the pale, furious expression. "How long did it take?" he asks again, every word careful and measured. "A minute? Five?" 

A minute. A lifetime. Four thousand eternities. Sam shakes his head. "Much, much longer," he says.

\--

Dean doesn't ask about it any more. Sam thinks that maybe Dean's learned enough but then he finds Dean watching him. Dean watches every time Sam picks at one of Sonneillon's whip marks, eyes the line of bandages under Sam's clothes, sees when Sam does something to aggravate the injuries sustained in the dungeon of Agares' club. 

It gets under his skin until he's jumpy, until even touching his neck and reminding himself of Lilith won't help. He flinches at every noise, every movement, every time Dean touches him. Dean's being careful, gentle as he changes the bandages and checks to see how the marks are healing, but it's clinical. Like his first month out of hell, Dean won't otherwise lay a finger on him. 

He has hopes that things will settle when they leave Miami, when Dean drives as far away from the city as he possibly can, but after three weeks and three thousand miles there isn't any progress. Sam is even jumpier and Dean is even more distant, apart from how closely he's keeping an eye on Sam. 

There's no outlet for Sam's need, a coiling thing in the base of his spine before Sonneillon, now massive and growing after Sonneillon's careful treatment of it. There's no outlet for Sam's power, starting to get impatient and snappy at being trapped behind mental barriers for so long. Sam doesn't sleep, doesn't eat, hardly talks, and still Dean watches. 

The surveillance is driving Sam more insane than Lilith ever did. He waits, plots and plans carefully, and, one night, while Dean's in the shower, Sam puts on his shoes and sneaks out. It's been two months since Miami; Sam is going mad. 

They're in the suburbs of Boise, not a lot around but Sam drops the outermost barrier in relief and feels for the nearest congregation of demons. He wastes a minute hot-wiring a car, takes off as fast he can, and makes it downtown before he hears the rumble of the Impala and sees brights in his rear-view. Sam ditches the car, takes off running, but Dean catches him, tackles him to the ground. Sam tries to push his brother off but Dean gets a knee in Sam's back and pushes. 

"Sam," Dean says, trying to catch his breath. "What. Do you think. You're doing?"

"Just for an hour," Sam says, pleading. "Half an hour. I just needed to get away, Dean, I need to get away, I can't, it's suffocating me, _please_."

Dean stands up, pulls Sam up and pushes him against the nearest wall. Sam's head thunks back, connecting with brick. It hurts. "No," Dean says, plain and simple. "Not on my watch. Now get your ass in the car or I swear to God I'll shoot you."

Sam's shoulders slump and he nods in understanding, the name of God sliding down his back with all the subtlety of a razorblade. Dean releases him but doesn't move too far away. Sam doesn't try running for it again; he walks to the Impala and gets in, watches blankly as Dean takes out his gun, aims it at Sam, and closes the door. 

When they get back to the motel, Dean asks, "Do I need to tie you down?" 

Those words spoken by any demon would have Sam's mouth dry with anticipation. The way Dean says them, it leaves Sam feeling small. "No," he says, and lets Dean inject him with the strongest sedative they possess. 

He sleeps for what feels like the first time in weeks. 

\--

Sam can see how scared Dean is. He knows the edges of Dean's anger, thinks he has a handle on Dean's need for vengeance and the ways he tries to protect Sam, but he's not sure where the fear came from, guesses Miami and doesn't push any further than that. If it's been brewing for longer, Sam never saw it and hates to think that he missed it along the way. 

He tries his best. Dean's terrified and the tension of that bleeds over to Sam, already stretched thin enough for cracks to appear along faultlines Sam's all too aware of. He aches to be fucked, nerves humming with the bone-deep desire to be hurt. In the dead of night, when he's awake and Dean's asleep, Sam stares at motel ceiling after motel ceiling, all of them lit through thin curtains from the outside, by the red LED of clock-radios and, at the better places, blinking lights from bathroom hair-dryers. He's alone in a way that has him inches from calling Lilith and begging to be taken back to hell and the mere thought of hell's queen has him groaning with the need to be broken open and bled.

Lilith doesn't come but Vetis does; Sam can feel his right hand when the boundaries around his power wear thin in the early hours of the morning, stretched out with the remnants of Sam's self-control. Sam's tempted, so tempted, to summon the demon as hours melt into days of waiting for something to snap, him or Dean or the tense air between them. He doesn't call for Vetis, though and the demon never attempts to make contact; knowing the demon's there is enough to get him through sleepless night after harrowing day until he sleeps because his body just can't go on any longer.

The worst of the seven deadlies visit him while he's unconscious. Every time he sleeps, his dreams are visited by Lust, who shows him Dean, naked and gleaming with sweat, fucking into a person that looks suspiciously like Sam, hands around the bottom's throat and choking. When he wakes, gasping for air, and Dean is watching him, Sam feels want like the best of Envy's conjurations mixed with Greed's desperation and Gluttony's hunger. Sam _wants_ and it scares him; he knows he could make Dean give in, give him what he needs, it would be so easy. One moment of order in his voice and Dean would be changed, wouldn't have a choice and would do it with a smile on his face. 

The first moment he wants to kill his brother comes thirteen days in. Sam locks himself in the bathroom, trying to rein in the pure and utter fury that he feels thanks to Wrath. Sloth's restlessness is urging him up and out, pushing him to run away, and only his promise to Dean, only the absolute fear Dean wears now like his favourite pair of socks, is keeping him here. Only his pride -- and oh, what he wouldn't give for some of Pride's self-assurance right now -- is keeping his chin up and his back straight. 

Sam knows better than to count on pride for anything. 

"You okay?" Dean calls out, banging on the door. "Sam?" 

"Fine," Sam replies, voice loud. It doesn't shake. His voice is strong. "I'm fine." 

Dean doesn't push and Sam stays sitting. The tiles under his ass are cold and hard, the wall he's leaning against makes his spine ache. Sam shifts once he starts losing feeling in his feet and swears under his breath as a jagged edge of tile against the wall cuts his palm. 

He lifts his hand to his mouth and sucks at the cut for a handful of seconds before a wave of adrenaline-fueled pleasure hits his brain. The sting in his palm, the taste of his blood, it's better than Sam remembers, better than he would have expected. 

Sam stands up, looks at himself in the mirror as he rinses out the cut. It isn't the most ideal solution but if it holds him long enough for Dean to get over this fear of his, it might be enough. 

It might be just enough.


	7. Chapter 7

Knives, he finds, are the easiest, and his own the most trustworthy. He knows where they've been, knows how clean they are, knows the edge they all hold, knows when each of them were last used. His favourite is the littlest knife, the Kyocera ceramic _santoku_ they keep for water hunts; ceramic doesn't rust and holds an edge forever. 

It slices across his skin like rice paper, effortless and smooth. The cuts it leaves heal quickly and cleanly, though Sam only makes them where Dean won't be able to see them. The pain isn't enough, isn't nearly enough, but it keeps him sane enough to deal with Dean day in and day out, gives him the self-control to stay close to his brother instead of going out, searching for what he needs and someone who will give it to him.

He's in yet another motel room in yet another north-central state, keeping away from Miami and the south, when he nearly slices the vein in his arm. Dean's out on a food run and Sam's promised to stay in the room. He rinses off the knife, puts it away, and holds a wad of toilet paper to the bleeding wound on his arm. A knock at the door and Sam drops one barrier, senses Ruby. 

He opens the door with relief and lets her in without questions. 

"Vetis tracked me down," she tells him. "You look like shit."

Sam smiles wanly. "Gee, thanks. Why are you here?"

Ruby sees through his smile, frowns and says, "It can wait. You going to tell me what has you looking like Wrath-warmed-over?"

"Nothing," Sam says. "I'm fine. What's happened? Dean'll be back any time."

"Correction," Dean says, standing in the open doorway. Sam glances at his brother, sees that Dean's holding a gun, not food. "Dean is back now. What the hell is this bitch doing in our room?"

Ruby tosses her hair over one shoulder, rolls her eyes, and asks Dean, "Can't you see he's freezing? Grab your food and shut the damn door before he gets sick."

Dean stares, first at Ruby, then at Sam. "And why do you care?" he snipes, muttering under his breath as he uses one hand to grab the bag of Chinese take-out, the other still clasping the gun tight. "Wanna kill us both yourself, is that it?"

"There's no way I could kill Sam even if I wanted to," Ruby says. "As for you, I'd damn well fucking like to right now."

Sam blinks, tilts his head, is about to ask but realises he's still holding toilet paper to his arm. While Dean's bitching under his breath, closing the door, checking the salt line, Sam drops the paper into the garbage can and tugs his shirt sleeves down. He hopes Dean hasn't noticed. 

"I'd like to see you try," Dean finally says, hands empty save for the gun, glare fixed firmly on Ruby. 

"I wouldn't," Sam says, interrupting the two. Both of their glances shift to him and he asks Ruby, "Why do you want to kill Dean? Apart from the usual, I mean." 

Ruby huffs, puts her hands on her hips, and says, "Because he's an idiot." 

"Oh, _I'm_ the idiot?" Dean snorts. "Right. Last time I checked, I wasn't a demon and seems to me I'm not the one inviting demons into my room. What about this makes _me_ the idiot?"

"Because you are killing your brother," Ruby says. 

Sam misses a breath as Dean's eyes flick to him, then back to Ruby. "Ruby," he breathes, barely keeping himself from calling her by her title or true name. "Please, don't."

Ruby looks at him and Sam's taken aback by the depth of conviction in her gaze. She's not going to be swayed from this course, that much is clear to see. Sam wishes he knew what Vetis said to her and he thinks, just for a moment, of calling the other demon in, no matter Dean's reaction. She raises an eyebrow and Sam sighs, gives up before he even gets going -- she's right, after all, and fighting would be a waste of energy that Sam doesn't have.

She looks back at Dean, then, and says, "You're driving him crazy and you're making him hurt himself just to stay sane. You need to stop. You're being an idiot if you think that keeping him locked up is doing any good because it isn't. You're _hurting_ him. "

Dean gives Ruby a mocking smile and says, "I'm doing him a favour, then. He should it like it, being the pain slut that he is." 

The words hang in the air for a long second. Sam knows its coming even before Ruby reacts yet he doesn't have time to stop her. Her hand connects with Dean's face, an open-palmed slap that sounded like it stung terribly. Sam winces and takes a step back before he realises what he's doing. Dean looks absolutely furious, like his head just might explode any second, and Ruby looks about the same. She stands there, scowl still etched across her face, while Dean lifts a hand to touch his cheek. 

"You are such a fucking _bitch_ ," Dean says, low and heated. 

Ruby snorts, replies, "Not the first time you've said it, Dean. Running out of insults? Can't think of anything else to call me? But, you know, you're half right. At least I'm fucking." Sam has a bad feeling about this, one that doubles when Ruby's glare turns into a sickly sweet smile. "When's the last time _you_ fucked anyone?"

Dean growls, honestly growls. "Shut. Up. You honestly expect me to believe that some kid out there would stick his dick in you voluntarily? What'd you have to do, tie him up like that bitch Meg did to us in Chicago?"

"Oh," Ruby purrs. "There was no question of volunteering. He was _quite_ eager. And I don't know about a _kid_." She looks at Sam for the first time in minutes, tilts her head and smiles. "Are you a kid, Sam?"

"There is no way in hell my brother would ever fuck you," Dean says. "Not in a million years, never. He has standards."

Sam wants to hide, especially when Ruby tells Dean, "His _standards_ , as you put them, are things you'll never understand, Dean, and I more than qualify. And it didn't take a million years, just four thousand eternities."

With the two of them locked in some kind of stalemate, Sam steps forward, reclaiming his ground. "Would the two of you, just, _please_ stop."

"I will once you tell her how insane she is," Dean says without taking his eyes off of Ruby. "I mean, come on, like you'd ever fuck _her_."

"I have." The words ring out in the silence and Sam's gratified to see that he has Dean's full attention now. His brother looks horrified, eyes slowly sliding to meet Sam's, shaking his head. "And she's right, more recently than you fucked anyone. You might not want to deal with my baggage but Ruby's never had a problem with it."

Dean's mouth opens and closes, opens and closes again. "Because she's a _demon_ ," Dean says, as if maybe Sam's forgotten that fact. "No demon is gonna have a problem with fucking over someone they had in their clutches. Sam. Tell me you're joking. Please."

Sam holds his ground and shakes his head. He's hurting Dean with this admission, knows he is, but the part of him that Wrath spoke to, spoke _for_ , is pleased with the brutal honesty. "I'm not joking. I've fucked her. The first time, she got down on her knees and ripped a piece of flesh from my stomach and when she was done she licked up my blood and blew me. We've fucked a lot since then. She's tight and hot and wet and unlike you, she's not afraid of me. She takes what she wants and I _like_ it."

Betrayal is the only emotion on Dean's face. Sam had been expecting anger or hurt at his treachery, but there's nothing beyond the expression Sam's seen on myriad faces of the betrayed. He starts to soften, to think that maybe he could have done this a better way, opens his mouth to apologise and soften the blow, but then Ruby's smacking _him_. 

Her nails draw blood as they scrape across his cheek, palm unyielding against his nose. It has to be broken, is at least bleeding. His ears ring and he feels more calm now, in this moment, than he has in days. 

"What the _fuck_?" Dean yells. 

He makes a move for Sam but before Dean can get anywhere, Ruby says, pointedly, "Look at your precious little brother, Dean. Does he look like he's anywhere close to upset?" Dean pauses and Sam feels his brother's eyes take in the bloody nose, the furrows on his cheek, the way his shoulders are free of tension and he's hard in his jeans. "He likes pain," she says, softer. "But not the kind you're putting him through. He went through hell for you and you can't even bring yourself to let him get what he needs? He's not asking you to do anything except _let him go_."

Sam's never heard Ruby speak to anyone that softly except him. He feels. He feels jealous, a little, which is strange. He hadn't expected that. 

"They're practically killing him," Dean says. He sounds broken. Apparently softness gets through to Dean where anger and insults won't. Either that or Dean's been fighting himself, poking holes in his confidence and cracks in his self-righteousness.

Ruby sighs. "He's already died twice. It wouldn't be anything new. But they aren't killing him. They're just giving him what he's asking for. Because you won't. If you can't give him what he needs, fine, someone else will, but if you won't, and you're stopping him from finding it? Sam might have bought out your contract but there's nothing saying we can't kill you now just to get you out of the way. Fact, I'm surprised no one's tried yet."

She doesn't wait after that, doesn't stop to see if it's sunk in. She just leaves. The door closes behind her with a quiet click and Sam sits on the edge of the bed before his knees can give out. The room is silent though echoes of everything that's been said bounce around the edges. They probably won't ever stop. People will be sleeping in this room until the motel gets razed to the ground and they'll hear impressions of this argument. 

"I can't hurt you," Dean says. Sam looks at his brother. "I've never been able to. I want. And I can't watch anyone else do it, Sam, especially a demon. It goes against. You're not. I hate not being able to give you what you want but I _can't_ , Sam."

"It's all right," Sam says, but Dean's shaking his head, starts pacing back and forth again. 

Sam reaches up and touches his cheek. He's stopped bleeding and doesn't want that; he picks at the tender skin until it starts bleeding again. 

"I can't let you get that from demons." Dean's paused, watching Sam, face drained of colour. Sam thinks his brother's remembering Miami. "I can't let them hurt you." The ' _any more than they already have_ ' is unspoken but, Sam's sure, perfectly clear regardless. Dean takes a deep breath. "I'll do it. I'll. I'll find a way to do it. I _want_ to do it, to. You know. What you need."

Dean looks down, looks away, rubs his hand over his face. He can't even say it. He won't look at Sam. 

"We'll start small," Sam says. He feels empty, a vessel ready to be filled. He felt like this in hell and fought Lilith when she tried to fit all of her inside all of him. He feels like this now and just wants Dean. "But you don't have to do this."

"Yeah," Dean says. "I kind of do." 

Sam shakes his head, reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You can't even say it, Dean. And I'm tired. Can we talk about this in the morning?" 

Dean sits down on his own bed, leans forward and looks at the floor. "Hurt you," he says. "I'll hurt you. Because you. Because you need it. There's nothing to talk about." 

Dean sounds as desperate as Sam feels. 

\--

"You can stop acting like a hunted animal," Sam says the next day. Dean jumps, startled and with guilt in his eyes as he looks at Sam. It's the first time he's done so all day. Breakfast was awkward, lunch was worse, and now, sitting in the Impala and staring at the flat plain of middle Illinois, Sam's reminded of how it was when he first came back from hell. He's carrying fewer secrets now but Dean hasn't touched him, hasn't talked to him, hasn't looked at him. It feels like they've gone backwards when they should really have moved on to something else by now, maybe not better but definitely _more_.

Dean turns his eyes back to the road and clenches the steering wheel tighter. His knuckles are white. "I'm not acting like a hunted animal," he mutters. 

Sam doesn't bother to hide the snort. He shifts in the seat, leaning towards Dean, dropping his head when Dean flinches. "Right," he drawls. "You're completely all right with everything. Which is why you're treating me like a leper. Again." 

"Shut up," Dean snaps.

For a moment, Sam thinks about doing just that. He's gotten in the habit of backing down from Dean's challenges and this is just one more argument that they don't need to have. He won't, though, not when he's already provoked it. 

The one time that Dean's raised a hand to him since their father died, Sam pushed and pushed and pushed, eventually pushing Dean past sense and care. Lenore had sniffed his cheek later that night, when he'd carried her out of the house and away from Gordon's snaking vengeance, and murmured something about the fury coiled up in the one who'd caused his blood to blossom into bruises. He hadn't heard her well and now regrets he never asked what she meant. 

"No," he says, calm. "I'm not gonna shut up." Muscles clench in Dean's cheeks as he grits his teeth together. "What're you gonna do about it?" 

He half expects to Dean to snarl something at him and is taken off-guard when Dean looks at him out of the corner of his eyes and says, "You're trying to get a rise out of me."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Yeah. Is it helping?" 

Dean snorts. "If I don't wanna smack you when I'm not fucking pissed off at you, doing it when I am is just gonna make me feel even guiltier."

"I'm," Sam starts to say.

"Shut up," Dean says, cutting him off. 

Sam huffs, tucks his bangs back behind his ears, says, "If you're gonna eat yourself up about it, then don't do it, Dean. Simple as that." 

Dean changes lanes, speeds around an old lady going fifteen miles slower than the speed limit. "Shut up," he says again. 

This time, Sam listens.

\--

They're eating dinner in a bar just west of the Mississippi when the sun sets. Dean's munching down on one of the greasiest burgers Sam's seen in a while and he can hear Gluttony moaning at the thought of having one for himself. He grins, has to hide it by looking down at his own basket, breadsticks and sauce to dip them in.

"What?" Dean asks, mouth full of food. Sam looks up, shakes his head, and Dean gestures at him with a fry. "You smiled. First time all day. First time since in a long time, 'cept when you saw Ruby." 

Sam grimaces at the thought that Dean's been watching him that carefully. He's saved from an answer when a murmur starts near the entrance of the bar and begins sweeping back to the corner where they're sitting. 

Dean sees her first, groans and mutters, "Can't she just leave us the fuck alone?" 

Ruby's walking toward them, stalking, more like, and she looks ready to eat either one of them. Sam can't help the flush of heat that swims through him when he takes in the way her scarlet tank top is pushing up and displaying her tits to their best advantage. His mouth goes dry when his gaze drops to see black leather pants clinging to her hips and ass, stretched across her thighs and flaring enough in the bottom to show stilettos. 

She elbows him, shimmies into the empty space of the booth Sam's sitting on, and bares her teeth at everyone else still watching her. They go back to their business, she steals one of Dean's fries, and says, "You two are the hardest bastards to pin down I've ever met. And I knew Wild Bill, so that's saying something." 

Dean puts down his burger, lets one hand slip under the table. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Aw," Ruby says, tilting her head, sucking on one fingertip for a second. "Did you miss me, Dean? You sure are trigger-happy to see me. Didn't your daddy ever teach you how to treat a lady the right way?"

"My _dad_ ," Dean bites, "taught me how to treat a woman just fine. Taught me how to treat a demon, too, so you just better be glad you're not crackling your pretty little ass back to hell right now." 

Ruby grins, looks at Sam, and says, "Dean thinks I have a nice ass." Sam's snort gets caught in his throat when she presses up against him and digs one stiletto right into the top of his foot. Heat swims through his body and he doesn't know whether it comes from the pain or the promise buried in her eyes. "What do you think, Sam? You like my ass?" 

"There's something inherently _wrong_ about you pretending to be innocent," Sam replies. It's not an answer; he knows it, Ruby knows it, and, judging by the way Dean's eyes narrow, he knows it as well. "Why'd you have to track us down?" 

"All work and no play," Ruby murmurs, leaning up to whisper it into his ear, just loud enough for him to hear over the noise of the bar, before she nips at his earlobe and sits down, using Dean's focus on Sam to snag another couple fries. Once she's chewed and swallowed, she adds, "I was going to take this up with you last night but we had other things to talk about and you left before I could stop you. You gonna eat that?" she asks Dean, no pause to signal the change in topics.

Dean looks down at his basket, sighs, and pushes it over to her. "Demons always chase my appetite away," he says. "Answer Sam. Why the fuck are you following us?"

Ruby gives Dean a mocking smile, asks, "It can't be just because I missed your smiling face?" 

Sam resists the urge to rub his forehead and merely settles for saying, "Ruby." 

She rolls her eyes at them, reaches across Sam for the bottle of ketchup and promptly dumps half of it on what's left of Dean's meal. "Fine, then. Spoilsports. You're on your way to a ghost in Oklahoma, which can wait. There's a situation you should take a look at." 

Dean looks at Ruby for a long moment, then at Sam. "Is she serious?"

"I don't know," Sam says, glancing at Dean before turning in the booth to face Ruby better. "What kind of situation?" 

"There's a possessed factory worker who's going to create a toxic waste site equal to the Exxon Valdez downriver from St. Louis," she says between bites, completely matter-of-fact. "He's planning on rerouting the by-products from a lead-processing dumping facility right into the Mississippi. We'd like to make sure it isn't going to happen." 

Dean sits back, eyes narrowed. He thinks about what she's said for a minute, then asks, "Demon-possessed? Why would you want us to send one of yours back to hell?"

Ruby doesn't say anything, just looks at Sam. He thinks about what she's said _and_ what she hasn't. Possessed, but not demon-possessed, toxic waste, a comparison to the Exxon Valdez, and factory by-products, which can only be hazardous. "Famine," he says. When Ruby nods, watching him, Sam mulls that over. If Famine's doing this but Lilith doesn't want it to happen -- the only thing Ruby could mean by saying 'we' -- then that means it's part of a heavenly plan to use one of the demons' less reputable cousins. "Will the normal exorcism work on a horseman?" 

"Whoa," Dean says immediately. "Whoa, hold the fuck on a minute." He leans forward, elbows on the table, and asks Ruby, "There's a _horseman_ possessing someone? As in, horseman of the apocalypse?" After she nods, keeping her mouth shut for once, Dean's eyes slide to Sam and he asks, in even more disbelief, "And you're serious about taking this one on?"

"Shouldn't take that long," Ruby says, shrugging one shoulder. Sam frowns. She takes Sam's beer, chugs half the bottle down, and goes on to say, "Oh, come on, _general_. Others might have use for them but they belong to hell until the time of prophecy." 

Sam's frown smooths out a little. He takes the bottle back, sips at it, can taste Ruby under his lips. He'd know if it was the apocalypse, he's sure of it. He's the one who's supposed to start it. Still, it doesn't hurt to check, so he asks, cautiously, "How do we know this isn't the time of prophecy?" 

"She says it isn't," Ruby replies. It's good enough for the princess, it's a good enough reason for the prince. He'd never gainsay Lilith's expertise on a matter like this. 

"Hold on," Dean says, interrupting them. "Can I just. The time of prophecy? Belong to others? _She_? Someone wanna clue me in?" 

Before Ruby can say something smart, Sam sets one hand on her thigh, presses down hard. He'd never be able to get his jagged nails through the leather and he doesn't really want to hurt her, but she's already given up too many of his precious secrets to Dean and he'd rather not have her letting any more out. 

Ruby glares at him but her glares have lost all potency; even before his trip to hell, they hadn't been all that scary, not that he's about to tell her that. "The time of prophecy's the four horsemen thing from Revelation. You know, each given one-fourth of the population, Death and War and Conquest and Famine, et cetera, blah blah," he says, waving it away. Dean mimics him, mouths some words that Sam doesn't have to hear to understand. "After going to hell and meeting them," he says, voice low and full of memory, "that whole thing doesn't scare me as much as it probably should." 

Dean swallows. "You _met_ them?" Sam nods, Dean thinks about it for a second. He finally gives Sam a narrow-eyed look and asks, "Does Death look anything like that chick from the comics? You know, the one with all the ankhs and the emo kid brother that always reminds me of you?"

Sam glares. "No. Death's a skeleton."

"Ah," Dean says. " _Family Guy_." 

Ruby looks back and forth between the two of them and, when neither of them say anything else, rolls her eyes and hisses, "Can we get on with it or would you two like to compare pop culture iconography some more?"

Dean's glare returns in full force. "Listen, _demon_ ," he says. " _You_ came to _us_ , remember? I don't know what the hell you did to my brother but I don't like you and I really don't trust you. If we're taking too much time, you can leave. No one's stopping you." 

"Listen, _hunter_ ," Ruby says, replying in the same tone. "I can just easily find a way to deal with your brother when you aren't around. If I do that, you'll never know which hunts are coming from me and which ones he's tracking down himself. Plus, he'll be getting laid while you aren't. He'll always get what he needs from _me_." As if to prove it, Ruby shifts in the booth, drapes herself over Sam, half sits in his lap, and reaches down with one hand to rub his crotch. Sam's breath catches in his throat and she draws her teeth down his neck and lets them sink in, drawing blood, at the junction of his neck and shoulder.

"Get your filthy hands off him," Dean snarls. 

Ruby smiles and says, "Tsk, tsk, Dean. I thought we talked about this. You're not taking care of him so I will." 

Dean leans across the table, plants his hands, and says, "Get. Your hands. Off of him. _Now_. And then _get out_." 

There's a hush around them, like a cocoon of silence spreading out from their table. Sam doesn't want to look to see how other people are taking this, people who don't understand what's going on, so instead he lets one hand glide up Ruby's thigh, settling in between her legs, rubbing hard enough for her to feel through the leather. She looks at him, sighs when she sees his expression, and gets off of Sam, sitting back down on the booth. She's still pressed against him, though, and no matter how much Dean's glaring, Sam won't ask her to move. Prince and princess, together; it feels right. 

Dean seems placated enough, especially when Sam taps his fingers on the table as if he's waiting for something. Dean sits back down, takes a deep breath, and says, "You want us to go and exorcise Famine out of someone before it can pollute the river. Should I ask why the demons are suddenly turning into eco-warriors?"

"If the contamination happens," Ruby says, fighting for the last of her patience. Dean probably won't be able to tell that but Sam can, so he nudges her foot with his, lets his knee rest up right next to hers. "Then we'll lose influence. Not to mention, our seers have," she pauses, here, and Dean flicks his eyes to Sam. "They've said it won't be good."

"We get rid of Famine, we're fucked. If we don't, we're still fucked," Dean sums up, succinctly. "Sam? What d'you think?"

Lilith asking, Ruby here to deliver the message, Sam doesn't really have a choice. He would've preferred Ruby to bring this to him without Dean around and, again, wonders why she didn't wait or didn't get in contact with him another way. "When?" he asks her. 

"Soon," Ruby replies, after chugging down the rest of Sam's beer. "You gonna do it?" 

Sam looks at his brother, shrugs. Dean holds the gaze, then shrugs as well. "Ghosts can wait, I guess." He sounds suspicious, still. Sam doesn't blame Dean one bit. 

"Guess so," Sam says. 

\--

Ruby leaves soon after, swinging her hips as she walks back through the bar, out the front door. Dean's watched her exit, most likely to make sure she's actually leaving. Once she disappears out of sight, he turns back to Sam, leans forward with his arms crossed, and raises one eyebrow. 

Sam sighs. "I don't know, okay?" he says, answering Dean's unspoken question. "We don't have to do it." 

Dean's eyes glint in the light. "I'm guessing we kind of do," he says, quietly. "She called you 'general,' just like that witch in the northeast. Generals gotta follow orders just like the foot soldiers. What the _hell_ have you gotten yourself in to?" 

"Hell," Sam echoes, snorting, tracing the pattern of the wood with one finger. "That pretty much explains it all." 

"Was it part of the bargain?" Dean asks, and he hesitates before the words come out. "Did you have to. To get me out of the deal I made?"

There's really no way out of this one, but so long as Dean just thinks Lilith expects something from Sam like Azazel did, nothing more, then Sam'll be okay. No mentions of heirs and princes, nothing about ruling; he'll have to tread lightly but he should be able to keep Dean from knowing that. 

Sam shifts, traces the rim of his bottle with one finger. Dean's eyes slip from Sam's face to the finger, watching it circle round and round, over and over. "It wasn't related to that," he says, quiet and careful. "Azazel wanted me to lead the demon army, remember? As much as I told Lilith I wouldn't, that I never will, she thinks the same thing. So, they call me general and hope they'll wear me down." He snorts, doesn't look at his brother. "It's going to take a while, that's for sure." 

"Sam," Dean says, looking back up at Sam, eyes catching on Sam's lips for a split-second, almost as if he thinks they'll move to tell Dean more. "Sam, that witch, she told you to remember her even after you gave us the key to exorcising her. And Ruby _asked_ if we wanted to take this on. They really aren't gonna push you?"

"No," Sam replies. "There's only one person who can make me do something I don't want to, and it would take far too much energy for her to push the issue. If she can't persuade me, she won't force me." Sam absently reaches up, touches his throat, mourns again the loss of Lilith and the sign of her favour. 

Dean scowls, looks away. "Lilith," he mutters. 

Sam takes a deep breath, doesn't say anything.

The waitress comes over, clears off their baskets when they say they're done and offers to bring more beer over for them. Dean doesn't look at Sam before shaking his head, telling her that they need to get on their way. He follows her up the bar, settles their tab, and Sam watches as Dean leans in and flirts with her. 

Possessive rage sweeps through him, like it has for years, since he turned sixteen and decided he wanted his brother. He's never acted on it and won't now, despite everything Lust and Lilith said in hell. Instead, Sam sits still, staring at the seat his brother's just vacated. Better not to look, he knows, and when Dean swaggers back with a number on a napkin or to hand over the keys to the motel room and tell him not to wait up, Sam will nod and let his brother have his hook-ups. Sam's the only one Dean really cares about. 

A small voice inside asks if Dean would, still, the second Sam tells him what that word meant, that long and painful word, the one that cemented Sam's place in hell and redeemed Dean from the same. Sam tries to ignore the voice and tells himself that Dean, the way he has Dean now, will be enough. It has to be enough. 

"Ready?" Dean asks, startling Sam. He looks up at Dean, can't hide the surprise, and Dean scratches the back of his head, shrugs. "Thought we should get a little closer to the scene of the crime before finding a place for the night. You up to it?" 

"Yeah," Sam says, curls of surprise floating through him, twined in with satisfaction. He doesn't question it, won't give Dean that opportunity. He stands, follows his brother out of the bar and to the Impala. 

The car is quiet on the ride, the Mississippi glinting through trees and buildings as they track it out of the driver's side window; the quiet is different now than it has been all day, though, different from the way silence has felt and tasted since Sam's return from hell. Sam hates to hope but maybe, just maybe, things will get better now. 

\--

They get forty minutes south of St. Louis before Sam stiffens. He's been -- it's not exactly _searching_ , because that would require something active, but he doesn't know what it is he's been doing. Drifting, perhaps. When the particular feeling of Famine hits his barriers, he tells Dean that this is the place and they should find somewhere to stay the night. 

Dean snorts, says, "Should've guessed," as he nods at a 'Welcome to Herculaneum!' sign on the side of the road, rusted and pitted. "Though I wouldn't waste my time here. Factory's been dumping into the river for decades."

Sam stares at his brother, finally says, "I'm not _even_ going to ask how you know that." 

"We stayed in the city when you were little," Dean explains, turning off the main drag in town to a side-street, having caught sight of a motel sign. "Five, six maybe. Dad had business down in Ste. Gen and the Cape, didn't want us along." Sam tries to think back but nothing sticks out, not until Dean adds, "You were in your Golden Grahams phase. You tried building a miniature Arch out of them and cried every time someone in the motel slammed a door and knocked it down."

Sadly enough, that rings bells. 

\--

The motel is tiny, can't be more than six rooms in a dilapidated half-circle around a courtyard with one scraggly tree and a gravel parking lot. Dean drives into the lot slowly, stroking the Impala's steering wheel apologetically. He glances over at Sam, says, "I'll get us a room. Find out what you need to about the horseman. Dunno if you wanna go after it tonight," he adds as he parks, half a question. 

Sam shrugs, says, "Don't mind either way." Admitting he could use sleep would mean admitting a weakness. On the other hand, reminding Dean that they've been up for hours, have driven all day and indulged in a few drinks and could _both_ do with a night's sleep before this hunt might rub Dean the wrong way, force him into a hunt when he's not one hundred percent just to prove that he can. It's better to let Dean to decide, to cover up a yawn so Dean knows he's tired but still willing to go if Dean is. 

Dean looks over at Sam, holds his gaze for a second, and finally says, voice as blank as Dean can ever get it, "You don't have to lie to me, Sam."

Biting back the need to argue, Sam merely hums, says, "Hope they have 'net access here. Maybe I can hijack a wireless signal if they don't." 

"Yeah," Dean says, wry and amused and bitter, all at the same time. "Right." 

Dean gets out of the car, leaves it running as he walks to the office. The light from inside catches the curve of Dean's arm as he reaches for the door; Sam takes a deep breath and shakes his head. He should be better than this, to look and wonder what it might be like to. He stops, closes his eyes and counts to ten. He used to have control of these thoughts. He doesn't know what's knocked them loose, Lust or Ruby or Dean's halting promise to do what Sam needs, to be what Sam longs for. 

\--

"I can't believe we're going to exorcise a horseman," Dean says, once they've picked up snacks from the vending machine, filled the ice bucket and taken showers, tucked into the two rickety beds, lumpy mattresses on both and every painting and sconce stolen from places on walls. The television has no remote and the door doesn't lock all the way; Dean's rigged something and Sam's warded it as best he can. They're watching a torrent on the laptop because it, at least, will eventually turn off without either of them having to get out of bed. 

Sam's been waiting for Dean to have second thoughts about this, second thoughts and third thoughts and fourth, fifth, down the line. He's been waiting for the doubt, for the escape from Missouri and a long drive through the night, for Dean to ask something that Sam can't find a lie to explain. 

Dean hasn't said much. He's watched Sam out of the corner of his eyes which, after hell, after Miami, Sam's almost used to. He's stayed away, hasn't touched Sam, but he hasn't completely freaked out, either. Sam wishes he knew what Dean was thinking about all of this. 

He's not going to ask so, instead, Sam thinks about Dean's reactions to Ruby, figures they have more to do with the fact that Sam's fucked her than anything else. Still, he'll ask Ruby next time she stops by just _what_ she's told Dean, not to mention how many times she's talked to him without Sam. If he could get Dean to -- not even accept Ruby, just tolerate her, he'd count it a win. 

"Is there anything I should know?" Dean asks. 

It's such a loaded question that Sam doesn't know where to start. He looks at the laptop, winces when he hears the tinny sound of a movie character screaming as they die, and looks back at the far wall, where cracks and paint chips seem to dance in the moonlight. "I can't do anything more than send him back to hell," Sam says. "Or anywhere else. All I can do is tell him not to do whatever he's been told." 

"Been told," Dean says. "By who? If Lilith doesn't want him -- it? -- doing this, then why is he? Just got bored sitting in the pit and decided to have a little fun?" 

"Not exactly," Sam says, haltingly. Some confessions are easier to make in the dark; he can't say too much but enough to answer Dean's questions shouldn't hurt and should be easier now that the night soaks around him, blocks him from the accusing glare in Dean's eyes, the sight of Dean's hands clenched into fists and his muscles taut, tight, from holding back the need to break something, to hurt something. 

Sam's body rushes with heat at the thought.

Dean huffs, turns. The bed creaks. A freighter on the river blows its horn. "So," Dean says, trying to lead Sam on. "If not exactly, then _what_ exactly?"

Sam doesn't move. "Famine's not really," he starts to say, has to stop, think about how to word this. Dean doesn't push; even in the dark, he knows that Sam's contemplating an answer, not ignoring the fact that he needs to come up with one. "He's not really sane, in the sense that we'd understand sanity." Dean snorts; Sam makes a noise that might agree with the sentiments behind Dean's reaction. "He's a personification of a force and all he understands is what he does. When I was in hell." 

This time, he stops. Dean gives him a minute, then asks, gently, "When you were in hell?" 

If only Sam could see his brother's face, see what look is lurking in Dean's gaze and how Dean's teeth are forming the question. He can't, though. That is its own blessing. "Famine said that he would raise prices and force people to choose between food and shelter, that he'd pollute and bring disease and cause pain." The room is silent. Dean must not be moving, not if the bed's quiet, isn't making noises. "He can't do that on his own, though. He needs guidance, sort of. And if it isn't Lilith, then it has to be heaven." 

"Wait," Dean says, a minute later. " _Heaven_? Famine plays for both sides?"

Sam sighs, shifts on the bed and cracks the big toe on his right foot. It's always been easy to crack, ever since Sycorax shattered it. "He's a demon, so no. But God's still got power over the horsemen. The prophecy in Revelation, that gives heaven some leeway to use the horsemen though Lilith can put a stop to whatever heaven's told them. Except when it comes to the apocalypse," he adds. "They're heaven's then." 

"If heaven told Famine to, to do whatever it's doing," Dean starts to say, before trailing off. 

Sam hums. "Fucked if we do, fucked if we don't. Heaven told Famine to pollute the area. Hell wants to stop Famine from doing just that."

Dean says, "Lots of grey," and then says, "We should sleep," putting an end to the conversation. 

Sam doesn't mind. He lays there, staring into nothing, until Dean's breathing evens out. He gives it another ten minutes past that, watches the laptop screen turn dark as the system goes into hibernation and the lights on the front settle into the rhythm of fading in, out, in, out. He sits up, wincing when the bed frame creaks, stands and walks to the door. With one backward look at Dean, Sam slips outside, breathes in the air and listens to the faint sound of the river and all that accompanies it. If he listens close, he can almost here the traffic moving on I-55, even at this time of day. 

This is a cheap place, one of the cheapest they've stayed at in a long time, so there aren't any chairs or tables in front of their room. There's no bench outside of the lobby, either, so Sam walks the couple paces to the Impala and sits on the trunk, staring out at the road in front of the motel. 

How long he's there, he doesn't know, but he's not surprised when a car drives up, pulls into the lot, comes to a stop right by the Impala. The person who gets out from behind the wheel is female, tall like Jess was but a dark brunette where Jess was blonde and pale where Jess was always so tan. 

She moves away from the car but leaves it running, drops to one knee in front of Sam. Her voice is husky, frosted with sensuality, as she murmurs, "Prince." 

Sam studies the crown of her head, takes in the business clothes, and wonders just where Vetis found this human. "Oh, stand up," he finally says, offering Vetis a hand up. The demon takes it, wavers as it straightens up, smiling all the while. "What are you doing here?" Sam frowns, then adds, "How did you find me? I have the barriers up." 

Vetis' grin thins a little and the expression looks downright predatory on this woman. Sam checks for a wedding band, doesn't find one and can't say he's entirely surprised. "The princess summoned me this morning and said you were coming here to talk with Famine. I hope you approve of this host?" Vetis asks, holding her arms out to the sides and spinning slowly so Sam can take in her entire body. "I tried to choose something that you would find pleasing."

"Why?" Sam asks. 

He's being abrupt and Vetis' expression flickers before she forces it back into place. "Is something wrong, Prince?" 

Sam's eyes narrow. Dean is sleeping, most likely restlessly, and all that separates Dean from finding out about Vetis is one thin door that doesn't even lock. "That isn't an answer, Vetis. Tell me, now, why you're here, before I do something I might regret."

Vetis swallows, drops to one knee again. "Forgive me, Prince," she says, looking down at the ground. Sam can feel the tension radiating off of the demon's chosen host. "I would never." She stops herself, says, instead, "The princess suggested I visit you. She said that talks with your brother had gone well but that the stress might be settling uneasily. She said that you hadn't yet begun training him in how to treat you." Vetis takes a chance and looks up as she asks, "Is that correct?"

The thought of _training Dean_ is enough to make Sam laugh. He smiles, shakes his head and lets a chuckle or two break free. Vetis looks overwhelmingly confused. The only person whose training Dean has ever accepted was their father; even others, Caleb, Jim, Bobby, were submitted to simply because John required it. Dean's never accepted authority and has never been shy about it, using his looks and charm when he had to but otherwise completely disregarding anyone supposedly above him. In something like this, the idea that Dean would listen to and take direction from Sam is simply absurd.

"Dean is not a demon, Vetis," Sam says, gesturing for the demon to rise. "I'll always be his little brother and thinking that he'll ever accept me in charge over him is laughable. He'll treat me how he wants; the most I _might_ be able to do is silence him when others are around, but even that." Sam trails off, shakes his head. "We'll figure it out, I'm sure. We always seem to. Sometimes it just takes a while." 

Vetis tilts her head. Light from the surrounding houses glints off of her diamond earrings. "Humans like your brother are rarely tractable, Prince. Pardon my imposition, but is it not more likely that he will recant his promise, or fail to follow through as he should?"

Sam snarls, grabs Vetis by the hair and yanks until her head is tilted back as far as it can go, pulse fluttering in her neck. "This is not your concern, Vetis. You _serve_. You do _not_ question me, _especially_ when it comes to Dean. Is that clear?" 

"Crystal," Vetis says, eyes half-closed. "But until the day he is taught to please you, Prince, is there anything I might do to ease your burden?" 

Sam lets go of the demon, steps back and turns away. Dean is sleeping. For how long, Sam doesn't know and he doesn't have a way to find out. He's no seer and, as far as he knows, there's no such thing as a sleeping spell. He has prophets and witches he could call upon but doing something like that to Dean, using magic on his brother, the thought doesn't sit well with him. Maybe he should be relieved that he hasn't entirely lost his humanity yet. Dean always seems to be pulling him back from the brink without knowing it. Maybe, as Ruby said, he should be worried instead of relieved. Once the greater mass of demons gets the idea that a human has leashed, in whatever way, their prince, they'll declare open season. Perhaps Lilith would even support such an action. 

No. No one must find out how much of a weakness Sam has in Dean. Sycorax knows and Lilith knows, Ruby does as well, but no one else. Sam has to protect his brother. If he can help himself at the same time, shouldn't he? It's only circumstance. He's doing this for Dean, not himself. 

"Wait here," Sam says. Vetis nods and doesn't move as Sam turns around, slips back into the room. He's moving with all of the preternatural grace he possesses, all of the skill he ever managed to pick up from his father. Dean shifts, Sam freezes, sure he's caught, but then Dean sighs, burrows deeper into the pillow. Sam doesn't think Dean's pretending but he can't be sure. 

Moving as fast as he can, Sam changes into running clothes, grabs his socks and sneakers, leaves the pyjama bottoms on the floor. He writes a quick note, shuts the laptop, and creeps out again. Vetis is standing right where Sam left her and the demon raises an eyebrow, seeing how disheveled Sam looks. 

"Let's go," Sam says, climbing into the Cadillac's passenger seat. Vetis gets in, puts the car in gear, and drives away. Sam doesn't look back at the motel but it's a close thing. He hopes Dean sleeps the entire time he's gone. A very small part of him wants Dean to have been awake, to see Sam creeping out, leaving Dean just as he always leaves Dean. A small part of him hopes that he has hurt Dean tonight and that Dean will hurt him in return. The larger part, the part relieved by Dean's somnolence, hates -- not Dean, but himself.

\--

He drowses while Vetis drives; he has no idea where the demon is heading and doesn't care. His barriers are still up but Vetis is _his_ , his right hand, an extension of himself, and Vetis knows him well enough to guess what Sam's in the mood for. They flick past bright lights; the change in light beyond his eyelids is paced evenly and he falls into a rhythm, lights above and cement underneath, lulling him half to sleep. 

Vetis doesn't talk, doesn't fiddle with the radio. She's silent, letting Sam unwind, free of the pressure of acting as much like the Sam Dean remembers as he can. Before Vetis pulls the car to a stop, Sam's let all but three barriers drop and the easing of pressure from the back of his skull has him practically boneless. 

"We've arrived," Vetis says, parking the car, turning the engine off. "That is, if it is your wish to remain here." 

"It's fine," Sam says, cutting Vetis off, unbuckling his seat belt and getting out of the car, stretching his body and his gifts both. The air here is cool, smells fresher than the air back in Herculaneum. They're parked in front of a large warehouse, their Cadillac one expensive car among many. "Where are we? And who else is here?" 

Vetis leads the way to the warehouse's door, explaining as she goes. "De Soto. It's about twenty miles back to Herculaneum; we made the drive in thirty-five minutes." 

She knocks on the door, a pattern that Sam doesn't recognise, and the door opens a moment later to reveal a human with ink-black eyes. Possessed, then, and Sam's guessing that all of the people inside are. Sam lets down another barrier, the one that lets him sense demons, and he grins when he feels thirty-two distinct presences. 

"Quite a gathering," Sam says, stepping inside to see every demon kneeling. 

"It has been some time since you've been among us," Vetis says, carefully, as if she's unsure of Sam's potential reactions. "Several were hoping that you'd visit with us tonight." 

Sam reaches out, feels for each demon. To his surprise, Agares is in the crowd, as is Sonneillon, and one or two others he's met before. Actually, the more he discerns identities, the more he realises that he's met _all_ of these demons already. "You drew lots?" he asks, turning to Vetis and not bothering to hide his shock. 

The human possessed by Agares shifts on its knee, asks, "Your permission, Prince?" When Sam gestures for Agares to continue, the demon looks up, meets Sam's eyes. "There are those of us who wished to see you again, for ourselves, with our own senses, to be sure you were well. We fought our brethren for the privilege. Are you displeased?" 

"No," Sam says after a moment's thought. He isn't displeased, more -- more honoured than anything. "It means a great deal to know that you take such interest in me." 

Agares looks around, takes a deep breath, and asks, "And are you well, Prince?" 

Sam levels a gaze on Agares until the demon's looking back down at the ground, clearly expecting rebuke or a punishment of some kind. Sam glances over the other demons, sees that, though they are uncomfortable, they are still interested in the answer. 

"I am," he finally says. Agares' shoulders relax. "And I shall be more so soon, I think." 

Agares looks at him, as does Sonneillon, along with a handful of others who've whipped him, beat him, tortured him. 

"Get up," Vetis orders. None of the demons move, so Sam drops another barrier, the one that flares brightly between him and Vetis, clear sign of who and what Vetis is to him. The congregated demons flinch at the light but then stand, awkwardly, when no other orders are forthcoming. 

Sam grins, wishes he could laugh. Demons acting like this, shy and nervous; he never thought he'd see the day. "I assume there's music?" he asks, arching an eyebrow. "And something to drink?" 

A demon laughs, peels off from the larger crowd and goes over to a corner of the warehouse. Music blares out a few moments later, music with a hard, thumping bass-line and breathy, moaned lyrics. The group of demons relaxes, drifts apart, some to find drinks, some to dance, some to shoot up, some to have sex without any hint of foreplay. 

"Drinks are to that side," Vetis says, the normal volume sounding like a whisper in the noise of the music. "As are other things." 

Heat flows through Sam's body, heat and a yearning so deep it takes his breath away. He turns, looks at Vetis, sees the look mirrored back at him. "My right hand," Sam says, reaching up to touch Vetis' cheek, fingertips grazing the soft skin. 

"Shall I prove my rhythm to you again, my prince?" Vetis purrs. The smile on her face is dark, twisted and cruel. 

Sam loves it. He loves it too much. He calms himself, thinks of Dean, and swallows away the guilt but lets the even-headed remnant remain in his mouth. "I'm meeting with Famine later today," he reminds Vetis. "It can't be anything too much."

Vetis ducks her head, looks up at Sam through long eyelashes. "I," she says, "will serve you. As always, forever. And perhaps it isn't my place to offer, but, Prince. Let me remind you how well I can twist together pain and pleasure."

"No reminder is necessary," Sam snaps. "I know you, everything about you, and I have never forgotten one moment of any of our meetings."

The demon drops to one knee, lets one hand trail up Sam's thigh, settles near his hip while her thumb strokes back and forth. The others, sensing a bargain nearly-struck, are watching even as they dance and drink and fuck. "May I serve?" 

Sam is not a cruel person but he possesses Wrath in abundance. He toys with the idea of refusing Vetis, of shaming the demon by picking someone else. His eyes scan the crowd, pause on Sonneillon, currently laughing with a bottle of whiskey in one hand. He remembers Miami, the last night he had to himself, to be himself, before Dean cut him off from demons and pain and sex for weeks. He can feel the phantom ache of Sonneillon's whip, shoulders itching even now from the way demons congregated at the window watched him. 

The sting of the memory hits his belly and, with it, a sudden realisation. He's missed it. He's _missed_ it, more than he ever knew he did, missed the lash of the whip, the scent of blood, the taste of his lip splitting between his teeth. He's missed the demons, their sly obsequiousness, the way they're so eager to serve by torturing him. He longs for this, for them. The knife helped, the hunts have taken the edge off, but Sam was changed by Lilith. He's not human anymore. He'd forgotten. He's forgotten so much and yet here, now, just being in the presence of the demons reminds him. 

As if he can feel Sam's gaze, Sonneillon pauses in his conversation and turns, raising an eyebrow at Sam even as he bows his head, eyes still fixed on Sam and ignoring the demons between them. 

Vetis, still on one knee, snarls. The noise sounds amazingly natural coming from the woman; Sam will _have_ to ask Vetis where this woman was found. 

Sam tears his eyes from Sonneillon and looks down at Vetis. "What was that for?" he asks evenly. 

" _I_ am yours," Vetis growls back. She's trying to calm herself but is failing miserably. Sam hadn't expected this from the normally composed demon. "Not that, that _thing_. You picked _me_. Will you let _me_ serve?"

Sam's hand ghosts over Vetis' hair, then drops back to his side. "Very well," he says. Vetis looks up at him, mouth open and eyes wide. "You may serve. And Vetis?" The demon nods and Sam says, "Don't be jealous. Your position is assured. Even if I chose someone else for tonight, you are my right hand, no one else." 

Vetis nods. "Forgive me, Prince." 

She sounds suitably cowed, suitably guilty. Still, it isn't like Vetis to give in to so much jealousy. Vetis is a demon from a higher circle than other demons more prone to such fits. Sam wonders where it comes from but dismisses the thought as unimportant, something to think about later, when he can decide whether or not it has anything more serious at its roots than their long separation. 

He eyes Vetis' head, reaches down to lift her chin up, so he can look into her eyes. He smiles, baring his teeth, and says, "If you want my forgiveness, you'll have to earn it."

The demon's eyes gleam at the challenge. She asks, though, before standing, "Now, Prince?"

Sam toys with the idea of telling her to wait. If he did, she'd listen and she'd cause him that much more pain when he decided he was ready. As tempting as that is, he nods. "Let's see what toys are here." 

\--

Ten minutes later, Sam's chained to several large metal loops welded into the concrete floor of the warehouse; the weight of manacles around his wrists, ankles, and neck is strangely comforting. He's naked, stretched out with one cheek crushed into the floor, and Vetis has one foot pressing down on his lower back, grinding his hips and dick down against the unyielding surface of the floor. 

"Your limits?" Vetis asks, voice ringing out over the crowd. The music still thumps, a low and heady bass that echoes the beat of Sam's heart and the roar of blood through his veins. 

As much as Sam wants to say that there are none, that he has no limits after his treatment under Lilith's care, he doesn't. Dean is out there, waiting for him, and there'll be Famine to contend with in what will probably be mere hours. "I need mobility once this is done," he says. "And as little damage to the skin as possible." The crowd murmurs and Sam can see Sonneillon out of one eye, looking both pleased that he was able to give Sam more and disappointed that Sam isn't willing to undertake a repeat performance. Fully opening the link to Vetis, Sam adds, "One or two stripes would be fine." 

The demon's amusement and acceptance filters down their bond. Sam closes his eyes and gives himself over to sensation. 

\--

Vetis takes her time picking the first implement; the silence from Vetis' mouth combined with the anticipation Sam can feel from her is enough to make his mouth dry. The other demons murmur but don't speak much above that, don't direct anything towards Sam. They, more than any human could ever understand, know that this is almost something sacred to Sam, something spiritual even as it is intensely physical. Lilith and Sycorax used pain to break him down into pieces, used pain to build him up again in an image they could show off and use. Pain birthed Sam in a way that even he can't always put to words and the act of visiting that torment again tears him down into what he is supposed to be: general and prince and heir to the throne of hell. 

The first touch comes from a soft flogger, teasing the surface of his skin as Vetis swipes at him. She keeps going, first over one shoulderblade, then to the swell of his ass, then to the curve of his thighs, then the other shoulderblade. It keeps him off-balance and his skin tingles more with every touch of the flogger, almost like a massage. The flogger's moose, Sam guesses, almost soft like butter, warming his skin, but the sensation quickly starts to spread. Each individual area that Vetis is working goes from warm to fire-hot in a matter of minutes, the heat spreading and joining until Sam's entire back, his ass, and his thighs are throbbing. 

Vetis switches then, suddenly, and a sharp, whip-crack noise splits the air over the music. Sam feels the cane a split-second later. The sting spreads through the over-sensitive skin on his back like fire and he arches up as much as he can, pulling on the chains, manacles digging into his skin. He chokes as he pulls the chain connected to his collar taut, vision blurring. He breathes out a moan, drops back to the floor and tries to relax, to catch his breath.

"Like that, did you?" Vetis asks. Sam can barely hear her through the thudding in his ears. He's not too far into pleasure to want to roll his eyes but he doesn't answer vocally. Vetis growls when Sam sends her a wave of amusement and ridicule. "Fine," she snaps. "We'll do this your way." 

The cane strikes the back of his thighs once, twice, three times. She's not holding anything back and it _hurts_ but it feels so good. Sam groans, feels the high of this torture start to circulate through his body. He's hard, dick aching every time he arches, every time he grinds against the floor, and Vetis laughs when Sam coughs and spits out blood from a split lip onto the floor. His wrists and ankles are throbbing from his pulling against the chains; even padded, the manacles will leave bruises if this keeps up.

One cane becomes two and the blows are landing too fast for Sam to do anything more than pant and groan. She hasn't broken the skin, amazingly enough; Sam hadn't thought Vetis' skill was at that level but he's too far gone now to feel something like surprise. All of his focus is on the agony he's feeling and the desperate, almost clawing need to scream for more. He doesn't, bites his lip harder to keep from begging. Only one person deserves to hear him beg and it isn't Vetis. 

As if she's disappointed at his lack of reaction, Vetis pauses and squats next to Sam, running her fingers through his hair, tracing under the collar and letting the pads of her fingertips soak in the sweat on the back of Sam's neck. "Am I displeasing?" she murmurs. "Would you prefer another?" She pauses, then adds with only the slightest hint of envy, "Sonneillon's eyes are devouring you." 

Sam struggles to make his mind work, to put more than two words together and say them. "Fuck me." 

Vetis is quiet and Sam wonders if she even heard him. "My prince, are you," she starts to say. 

He snarls, twists his head out from her grip to look up at her. He spits blood in her face. " _Fuck me_."

"Yes," Vetis finally says. "Thy wish." 

She grabs Sam's chin, kisses him, fucks his mouth with her tongue, sharp teeth nipping at every one of the places Sam's bitten his lips. Sam turns limp, doesn't fight the kiss, and gasps in Vetis' air when she yanks on his collar, stealing his breath. The demon pulls away, surveys him, and Sam doesn't even pretend he isn't dazed, every inch of his body in pain and his lips kiss-swollen and ragged. 

Vetis says, softly, "Our prince makes an enticing picture," and the surrounding demons murmur agreement. She leans down again, close enough to Sam's ear so that he can feel her every inhale and exhale. "I am going to enjoy this," she says. "And I will not even ask you to forgive me for it. Get on your hands and knees." 

She stands up, disappears out of Sam's vision. He closes his eyes, tries to regulate his breathing, to calm, but the anticipation is still running through his veins like adrenaline, like endorphins. His movements are clumsy, halting, and just as he gets to his knees, he collapses as his back flares up into an ache so intense he almost passes out. Sam waits for it to pass and this time moves slower, more carefully and measured. 

He makes it, knees and palms protesting at the concrete, warmed by his body and the activities of the last half hour or however long it's been, but still gritty, crumbling under him and digging into his skin. Vetis runs one hand down the curve of Sam's spine, nails scratching skin that must be flame-red to the eye. He lets his head drop and breathes heavy, swaying as she smacks his ass, palm open. 

Sam knows that he should be ashamed. Anyone else would be, ashamed and humiliated and disgusted, being put on display like this, flogged and caned and choked in front of demons, asking to be fucked like some kind of whore. He knows this and yet he isn't, not in the slightest. His dick's hard, drops of pre-come on the head, and he makes a high, keening noise when Vetis stands in front of him, forces him to look up at her. 

She's wearing a strap-on, bright pink plastic and black leather, and Sam should melting in embarrassment, but she smiles at his him, showing teeth, and says, "Suck it." 

This, at least, is familiar. He's used to Ruby's body, the way she fights him then fits around him, but he spent eternities at the mercy of Sycorax and there have been nights he's fallen asleep craving the feeling of a cock buried in his ass or the taste of come down his throat. He opens his mouth for Vetis, doesn't gag when she shoves the hard plastic halfway down his throat. He sucks as much as he can while she fucks his mouth and blindly follows when she pulls entirely out. 

Vetis bends down, gives him a quick kiss, and then moves behind Sam and enters him in one thrust. Sam wails at the intrusion, no stretching and the only lube his saliva on the dildo. Lilith isn't here to heal him or whisper in his ear and Sycorax isn't doing this to impart a lesson. This is Vetis, fucking him hard and mercilessly because Sam asked for it. 

Blood rushes to his skin and he pants, moving with every thrust from behind, feeling his skin tear and blood slick his hole, ease the way for the dildo. No blood, he'd said, save one or two stripes; Vetis hadn't taken it out of his back so she's taking it now, this way. In the midst of this, Sam doesn't complain. Later, he might. 

She fucks him. The demons around him are making noises just like Sam. Half of them are having sex while the other half are watching Sam and Vetis with intense concentration and narrowed eyes. Sam doesn't know what that means, doesn't have the capacity to think about it. He gives up, gives in, and collapses onto the floor when he orgasms, smearing come all over himself. 

Vetis undoes the manacles, turns Sam over, and he hisses when his back comes into contact with the floor. He doesn't otherwise complain, too tired and strung out to make any sense of the world beyond _ow_ and _sogood_. Tongues start cleaning up his dick, the come, the blood on his lips and chin, and there are hands shifting and lifting his legs to get at his hole. Sam closes his eyes and fades away, into sleep or unconsciousness, as Vetis strokes his forehead.


	8. Chapter 8

It's quiet when he opens his eyes, groaning as he moves. He can't remember what he did to be in this much pain and then his vision focuses. The warehouse, the demons, it all comes flooding back and he sits up straight, standing without even wincing though his entire body is one throbbing ache. 

"You slept for six hours," Vetis says and Sam turns around, sees her sitting down, cross-legged. The other demons are gone, as are all of the other contents of the warehouse. The air is cool and still, silent. Six hours uninterrupted sleep; that's more than he's had in some time. "I kept watch. How do you feel?" 

Sam gives Vetis a half-smile. "Awful." Her face drops and Sam adds, gently, "Just like I wanted to feel. You did well." 

Vetis looks up at him, hope written in her eyes. She searches Sam's face, relaxes when she sees that he's telling the truth. She springs to her feet and steps over to him, lifting her hand, pausing before she touches Sam. He nods, gives her permission, and she cups the curve of his cheek, leaning forward and kissing him. Her lips press lightly against his, hand sliding back to tangle in his hair, and Sam holds her by the waist. 

"Is it my turn to ask?" Vetis murmurs, baring her throat to Sam, making a noise of deep satisfaction as he drags his teeth down the skin, picking one spot and biting in hard. "Will you fuck me, Prince?"

Sam reaches down, hand between their bodies, and rubs the cloth covering her crotch. She presses closer and Sam nips at the other side of her neck, marking up the smooth, pale column of her throat. "Back against the wall," he murmurs. "And for fuck's sake, get these clothes off." 

\--

They fuck fast and frantic, Sam's hands all over the demon's body, her cunt tight around him, wet as if she's been waiting all night for this moment. It doesn't take long for her to come the first time and Sam doesn't stop, not until he does as well and Vetis does a second time. She leans back against the wall for support, holds Sam as he leans on her. Her fingers trace patterns over the bruises on his back; her touch is featherlight and brings pleasure to the pulsating ache. 

"You'll want to go back," she says. 

Sam hums agreement, then asks, "Where did they go? And when?" 

Vetis lets her forehead rest on Sam's shoulder. "Shortly after you fell asleep. They dispersed and will no doubt be leaving people around the area with no memory of the past night. I should do the same." 

"I like this one," Sam says, curling one strand of the human's brown hair around a finger. "You picked well." 

"Thank you," Vetis says. 

They stand like that for a few minutes and Sam sinks into the curious sense of being two people, so connected are he and the demon, like they were part of each other before but the sex and the flogging have sewn them together even tighter. He wonders, idly, if the bond between Lilith and Sycorax is like this, can't remember now based on what he saw in hell. 

He doesn't want to move but Vetis says, "We should go, shouldn't we. Your brother." She stops there, unwilling to say more, but can't help asking, "Would he really care if you left? Would you?" 

Sam wants to snap at her but it's an honest question. "Yes," he says, clear and simple. "We both would." 

\--

Vetis takes him back to Herculaneum, drops him off in front of the motel and drives off into the sunlight. Sam stands there, looking after the Cadillac, and, just for a split-second, thinks about calling her back and taking her up on the implicit offer to run away. With a sigh, he turns to the motel and walks across the parking lot. 

Dean's sitting on the bed when Sam gets the door open. Sam stops, abrupt, and Dean looks up at him, wry smile dancing on his lips. 

"You weren't doing anything with Famine, were you," Dean says. It isn't a question. 

Sam steps into the room, closes the door as much as he can. "No," he replies. If Dean deserves anything, it's the truth about a hunt. 

Dean nods as if he'd expected that answer. He probably did. "Why?" 

There's really no easy answer to give. He could say he needed it, could say that Dean hasn't done anything to assure Sam that he'll live up to his promise from the other night, could say that Ruby sent Vetis over and Sam was too weak to resist the call of demonic torture. 

In the end, Sam shrugs. "I'm a general," he says. "Some things I can avoid, some things I can't." It's as much truth as anything, though truth by omission. 

Dean stands up, crosses the room and stands right in front of Sam. He studies Sam, for what, Sam doesn't know, and says, "You know I love you, right?" Sam can only blink, surprised to hear anything like that coming from his brother's lips. He nods, and Dean leans in a little to add, "But sometimes, man, I really don't _like_ you very much." Dean turns away, turns back quick as a viper and punches Sam. His fist lands hard on Sam's jaw. 

Sam stumbles backwards, pokes gently at his jaw, wincing. It'll bruise, might already be on its way there. 

"Now," Dean says, already halfway across the room, picking up his gun and a knife, "how do we go 'bout tracking down Famine?" 

Sam stares at his brother's back, feels the pull on his muscles as his hand drops down to his side. He smiles and relaxes in Dean's presence for the first time in weeks. 

\--

Dean drives around all morning while Sam actively searches for Famine. The horseman keeps moving around the town but doesn't go beyond the city limits, as tenuously marked as they are in some places. Sam gets frustrated, finally sends out a wave of power like he did in limbo, waiting for the 'ping' of Famine to come back. Along with the knowledge that Famine's moved closer to the river, Sam gets a sense of amusement, that and tentative apology, almost as if Famine's wondering whether or not he pushed Sam too far. 

"There's a park by the river, isn't there?" Sam asks, eyes closed, scrunched up tight as he tracks Famine with his psychic radar. "Some kind of memorial place?" 

"Dunklin-Fletcher," Dean replies, turning around, heading in that direction without Sam explicitly telling him. "Has a great view of the river, as well as those oil storage tanks." He pauses, adds, "There's a train track, too, if I remember right." 

Sam nods, keeps a lock on Famine as best he can. Dean drives fast but not fast enough to catch the eye of any local cops or county sheriffs and asks, five minutes away, "How do you do that?" 

"Do what?" Sam asks. Most of his attention's on keeping hold of Famine, making sure the horseman doesn't move now that they're finally closing in on it. He thinks he knows what Dean's talking about but he damn sure isn't going to give up any information on accident. 

Dean snorts. "You know what I'm talking about, Sam." 

Sam gets shivers, hearing Dean's tone, low and completely unamused. He reaches up, lets his fingertips graze over the bruise on his jaw. Longing strikes at him like a snake might, too quick to ward against and yet not completely unexpected. Sam lets one hand wrap around his throat and rub. 

"Sam," Dean says. "Tell me how you know where this thing is. Now."

"If I reach hard enough, I can feel. Odd things, y'know? Things that don't belong." Sam talks slowly, carefully, trying not to sound _too_ careful or hesitant.

Dean takes a right. Once the turn signal's clicked off, he asks, "Like that thing you did in Lincoln with the poltergeist right after you. You never said you could still. It's never." He stops there, as if he's tried twice and won't any more. 

Sam wishes he could feel sympathy but he earned the power to do this, paid for it with his breath and blood and soul, and he won't deny it now, not when he can openly lay claim to it. "I had it before hell, I think," he says as Dean turns onto the road leading to the front entrance of the park. Broad daylight, they'd both prefer parking in the back and hopping a fence, but the bluffs and hills would be too much hassle to climb or descend in a hurry. "But it was harder to control then. I didn't know what I was feeling half the time. I learned." 

"Why haven't you said anything?" Dean asks. Sam opens his eyes, looks at his brother for the first time in hours. "Since you got back, all the hunts we've been on. You never said anything about it." He pauses, frowns, then says, "Louisiana, that _loup-garou_. You knew it was there?" 

The park's on their right; Dean finds the entrance and pulls in, parks but doesn't make any move. He's waiting for an answer and Sam knows that if he gets out of the car without giving one, they're going to have more than words once this thing with Famine is done and they're on the way to their next hunt. 

"I try to keep it blocked, mostly," Sam says. "It. You remember that headache I had in Lincoln? I can't afford to get one of those every time we drive within sixty miles of something supernatural. I'd never _not_ have a headache. I was just lucky with the _loup-garou_." A lie, obviously, but he'd only let his barriers down then because Dean was being an ass. Sam doesn't want to remind his brother about that. 

Dean turns in his seat, looks at Sam, really really _looks_. Sam barely resists the urge to squirm, instead looks away, out of his window, and touches his jaw again. The fresh flood of aching that spirals out from the bruise centres him, relaxes him. "You can stay in the car if you want," Sam offers. He looks at his brother, sees the raised eyebrow, and smiles just a little. "Yeah, I know. Thought I'd put it out there."

"What weapons do I need?" Dean asks, getting out of the car. "What would _work_ on a horseman? Pastor Jim never said anything about taking out the personification of famine."

"No one will be able to stop him, not when it matters," Sam answers. He shuts the car door, stretches, feels how tight his back is, how much his ass hurts. "But for now, I'm the only human who has any say about how he spends his time." 

Dean nods, still reaches into the trunk and takes out two guns and a knife, hands Sam one of the guns. Sam starts to argue but Dean snaps, "Take it, Sam, and stop bitching. I don't care." 

Sam takes a deep breath and the gun both, tucking it into the back of his jeans. He doesn't wait for Dean, sets off for the back of the park, the trees and the view of the Mississippi. Famine's possessing a human that lives here; he won't want any curious residents or friends to ask what's going on. That's common sense, nothing to do with the tie Sam can feel connecting him to someone buried back in the line of trees and tall bushes. 

He can hear Dean behind him and lets down one barrier, enough for Famine to know that Sam is here and is displeased about the little chase Famine led them on. He's not surprised to see a man on his knees, head bowed, when he steps around a bush onto a pile of leaves. Dean, though. Dean misses a step, takes a breath in as if he's about to say something but doesn't, instead letting it out slowly through his teeth, moving up to stand at Sam's left side. 

Famine looks up, looks them over, and says, half-smile, "Does he know that isn't his place?"

Sam growls and says, " _Vade retro satana_." Dean shifts, as if something about what Sam's said resonates with him for whatever reason, but Sam's more focused on the whip-lash of pain he just caused himself as well as Famine. 

"Forgive me," Famine says. There's a hint of playfulness even under the contrite words. Sam doesn't know what it is about the horseman but he sounds saner now, more in control. Perhaps the human is helping, albeit unwillingly with that, or perhaps it's being on earth as opposed to the presence of Lilith. For whatever reason, Sam hopes that Famine might be easier to deal with in this form than in his hellish one. "I am too much enamoured of hardening bones and swift diseases." Blake. Sam should've known that Famine would quote Blake. Before he can say anything, Famine gestures as if to tell Sam never mind and says, "I take it the queen has sent you to stop me from acting on behalf of the pretender viceroy?"

Sam can hear the wheels turning in Dean's head and wishes he could have forced his brother to stay in the car. He should've come after Famine by himself, last night, instead of giving in to Vetis' offer. Dean steps closer to Sam; Sam isn't sure if that's to protect him or to keep a closer eye on him. 

He takes a deep breath, says, "No. It wasn't the queen. Another came and asked if I would make sure you don't do the bidding of heaven before your time. Will you leave peacefully or will I have to exorcise you?" 

Famine laughs, throws his head back and lets out a deep belly laugh that echoes around the park. Sam stands there and waits. The horseman's laughter fades and he shakes his head as he stands. "You remembered your promise," he says. "Between the moment you gave me your word and the one in which my name was mentioned, you haven't forgotten. For that alone, I'll go back." He steps closer to Sam and reaches out one hand. 

Dean smacks it away, has a gun pressed to the side of the host's head one second later. "I know this won't kill you," Dean says, "but it'll hurt like hell. If you're gonna get lost, do it now." 

The horseman shifts until the end of the barrel is pushed against the centre of his forehead. Famine looks Dean over, up and down Dean's body, gun moving as his head moves, then holds up both of his hands, takes one step back. "Down, puppy," he says, mildly. "Or else I might be tempted to do something the general would kill me for."

Sam groans, doesn't bother hiding it, and the sound blends with Dean's growl. "Famine," Sam says, sighing. "Please." 

"My apologies," Famine laughs. He settles, gives Dean one more look, then tells Sam, conspiratorially, "Bet you have your hands full with this one. You know, I think there are quite a few who'd be willing to help you make sure he's housebroken," and throws his head back. Instead of the black smoke that demons look like, Famine's a sickly grey-green colour when he leaves the host's body, and Sam can almost see Famine's bones, sagging skin, and tattooed scale in the cloud. 

Famine curls up into the air like a great puff of mist, melting into the air like smog on a hot day. Sam stands there and watches, feels it the instant that Famine fades out of this plane and back into another. For the split second that he's open and that the rip in the fabric of space is open as well, he can feel Lilith's presence around him, a warm cocoon that promises love and hurt at the same time. 

He aches for her. 

"Queen?" Dean asks, startling Sam. "The pretender viceroy? Your _promise_? Sam, I'm beginning to think that there's a lot you need to tell me." 

Sam looks down at the human host, then squats, checks for a pulse. Nothing. He sighs, reaches into the back pocket of the dead guy's jeans, takes out the wallet and rifles through the cash. Couple fifties, couple twenties, a whole host of tens, fives, and ones. Sam takes one of the fifties then all of the smaller bills, leaving ninety bucks for whatever family this man had. 

"Talk to me," Dean says. Sam can't decide if his brother's ordering or begging but knows that this isn't the time or the place. A freighter on the river blows its horn; Sam stands, looks through a break in the trees, and turns his back on the idyllic picture. 

"We should go," Sam says. "There's that ghost in Oklahoma." He's playing on Dean's natural unwillingness to talk about things, not to mention Dean's absolute hatred for any mention of hell and Dean's wells of guilt and self-loathing, pinned directly on his own shoulders for letting so many things go wrong with Sam. 

Apparently it isn't enough; once they're back in the car and heading out of Herculaneum, across I-55 and southwest towards Kansas and Oklahoma, Dean says, "Tell me." 

There's a sign for De Soto; Sam sighs and makes sure all of his barriers and back up at full strength.

"The viceroy of heaven used to be Lucifer," Sam says. History he's fine with. History he can do. "Before he got kicked out. Michael took up the post afterwards. Well, according to the Dead Sea Scrolls but I guess that's truth at this point, else Famine would have called him a prince. Pompous but demons don't like to name names unless they have to. Names have power; it's not good to throw them around too lightly." 

Dean nods. Sam knows that his brother will believe that; they've rarely heard demons give out their true names, rarely heard demons name each other at all without being captured and subject to torture by holy water. "The queen?" 

Sam snorts, looks out the window. "Lilith." 

He never realised Dean knew so many curse words. Once he calms down and stops talking, it takes Dean twenty minutes to start again, to say just one thing. "That's why she had the authority to accept your bargain. The fucking queen of hell. Shit." Unlike the last break between questions, Dean doesn't wait to ask, "Your promise to Famine? What was that all about?" 

"That I'd remember him," Sam murmurs, looking down at his hands. "That I wouldn't forget him." 

Sam hasn't forgotten Famine. He's spent too many nights awake, thinking of hell, spent too many days replaying his memories from that place in order to stay sane. He thinks more of Lilith's touch, cool on his forehead, or Sycorax and his mocking laugh, of any of Lilith's magnificent seven. He and Dean argue and there are echoes of War in Sam's breath. He invokes her without even considering it, without needing anything more than his fury. Famine. He's been so _hungry_ lately. 

Even on here on earth, now, all this time after his sojourn in hell, he's been having trouble remembering. He's more demon than human. He relates to demons better. He has power. He is one of them and nothing like his brother. Dean is a bright and shining beacon of purity; he drinks and fucks and swears but his soul is bound for heaven and the blinding light of it has made Sam forget himself. 

Sam has forgotten himself now, lost in thought. He looks at Dean out of the corner of his eyes; Dean doesn't notice. Dean's silent. 

The silence lingers for an hour before Dean turns on the radio and doesn't say another word for eight hours and they're pulling in to a motel parking lot in Coffeyville, Kansas. He gets a room, lets Sam grab the bags. Dean draws the wards over the windows and door, lays salt down, and says, "Don't leave," before slamming the door behind him. 

The Impala turns on and the rumble fades as Dean drives away. 

Sam takes a shower, puts on his pyjama bottoms, and goes to bed.

\--

When it comes to ghosts, there are three general kinds: the ones who hold on to wreak vengeance, the ones who hold on to protect and end up losing their sanity, and the ones who don't even know they're dead. Sam's favourite kind used to be the latter, the ones who just needed a nudge to open their eyes and see fact. He could always find the words to help them let go, always used to love standing in the light once they realised they were dead, just caught and trapped, living the same tragedy over and over again without knowing it. They were harmless and watching them find freedom used to make his heart swell, the joy on their faces, the brilliance of light surrounding the moment when they finally gave in and found peace.

The ghost in Coffeyville fits into this category. In many respects, he's a lot like Molly McNamara. The two of them did nothing wrong except die at the hands of an insane murderer and hold on to earth. This ghost has been stuck here, on this plane, haunting the place of his death for forty-two years and has gone mad from it. 

Molly was the beginning of change, Sam thinks, doing the research here, trying to find out where this guy's buried and why he's still hanging around. Molly had been two months before Cold Oak and years since his coronation at Azazel's hand; seeing heaven hurt and he struggled to feel sympathy towards her. Now, digging up information before they can dig up a body, Sam's fed up. He's so in tune with the supernatural that he finds it impossible to think that someone _dead_ can't feel what he feels. He has no desire to see light, to watch someone else find the freedom that he'll never have, and if Molly made him uncomfortable then this case has him wanting to hurt someone.

Sam takes a deep breath, pushes his chair away the microfiched death register and pinches the bridge of his nose. The library's quiet, just the hum of computers and electronics, and Dean's on the other side of the building checking out cemetery lists. They've done this before, so many times before --Sam since he was nine and Dean from eleven, Sam trained to it almost from birth and Dean from the age of five -- and he's starting to get sick of it. 

Every ghost has his or her own problems, own twists, and they both expect something to happen though Sam thinks Dean's looking forward to the complication. Sam couldn't really care less; everything inside of him is screaming out for the company of his kind, the fulfillment of his destiny. The library is trying the limits of both his patience and his self-control. 

He checks a clock. It's been thirty-seven hours since De Soto. His barriers are up but he can feel phantom impressions of demons, ass aching as he shifts on the chair, craving more. It's been thirty-seven hours but it feels like months. Sam knows this isn't good, just as he knows he's verging on antipathy. His nerves are tight and wound-up; he's restless and the library is quiet, too quiet, everyone trying to pretend they don't exist, caught in their own lives and personal dramas and whether or not the latest John Grisham is any good and.

"Find anything?" Dean asks. 

Sam jumps, turns around and glares at his brother, stops when he feels power wanting to rise up inside of him and strike out. He bites it back, pushes it down ruthlessly, and shakes his head. "He's listed but they don't have a cemetery. The other victims were buried at different cemeteries, every single one of them. You?" 

Dean walks into the room, sprawls out on the rolling chair next to Sam. He kicks his feet out, spins, stops and looks vaguely nauseated. "Jackpot. Elmwood, that small one down the south end of town, near 169? Couldn't be the nice big one next to the golf course." 

"Right," Sam says, shaking his head. Nothing is ever easy when it comes to their job. Or, he thinks, their lives. "What's the plan?" 

"What do you mean, what's the plan?" Dean asks, now leaning forward as he frowns, focused on Sam. "We go in, we spend an hour in grave dirt, we douse him with salt and gasoline, then light the fucker up. What's the plan, dude, the plan's the same as it always is." 

Feeling self-conscious under Dean's gaze, Sam turns away, shuts down the microfiche reader. "It's not going to be that easy, Dean." 

"Never is," Dean replies. He pauses, finally asks, "You okay? You don't. I dunno. You don't need anything?" 

Sam resists the urge to snap that he needs more than Dean could ever get him, that he wants more than Dean would ever agree to. He takes another deep breath, reminds himself that he's been keeping little secrets from his brother since he could talk, life-and-death secrets since his early adolescence. It doesn't matter what Dean offered, he can see that now. Dean didn't mean it to be empty but Vetis is right, Ruby is right, Sycorax is right. Dean doesn't understand. Sam's glad that his brother never will but he's so _lonely_. 

"If I said yes," Sam says, "what would you do about it?" The implication is impossible to miss. Dean grits his teeth and Sam can see his brother shoulders tense up, even in the dark room. He shakes his head, stands up and gathers the sheets of microfiche to take back to the front desk. "Look, Dean, forget it. We'll go dig up some bones, light a corpse on fire, grab a beer, end of story."

He brushes past his brother. Dean mutters something behind him and although Sam can't hear the words he can feel their impact. Blasphemy, the Lord's name in vain; a line of fire snaps at his left calf. Sam takes the pain inside, feels the shock of it travel up his spine and hit his brain like a drug. It soothes him. 

Sam slows down, looks over his shoulder, asks, "Coming?" 

Dean studies him, makes a show of rising from the chair. A small strip of skin shows itself, Dean's stomach, flat and defined, pale and freckled. Sam lets his eyes feast for a split-second before he turns back towards the reference desk. 

\--

They aren't wrong about ghosts and complications; this one is no exception. 

Mark Wellby burns just fine but the EMF lights up when they drive by his old house just to be sure they're done. His spirit's either tied to something in the house or has unfinished business; Sam doesn't care which so long as they figure it out quick and get out of Coffeyville. The thought of spending hours trapped in the Impala with his brother isn't that appealing but Dean's already watching him as close as he did the first fortnight out of Miami. Other people have started picking up on it, started taking closer looks at them when they sit and eat in silence, when they bicker over unimportant details, as they walk down the sidewalk without looking at one another. Both of them know that getting noticed is a sure way to certain ruin even though Henriksen cleared their files and demons are more likely to kneel to Sam than try to kill him now. 

With dawn closing in quick, Sam picks the lock to the house's back door while Dean keeps a look-out for nosy neighbours. They don't expect anyone to be up at this hour, much less up _and_ watching the dead guy's empty house, but it never hurts to be careful. The lock's tricky, has jammed up or been reinforced somehow from the inside, and Sam's patient but not _this_ patient. He lets out a hiss between his teeth and resists the urge to kick the door down. Calling up every ounce of self-control he has, Sam swallows and narrows his eyes, trying one last time to jimmy the lock's inner mechanism. When he hears it pop, he drops the tightest barrier he has set up. 

There's no demon inside, nor anywhere within one hundred miles, maybe one hundred and fifty. 

Sam slams the barrier up before any of them can get a fix on his location and turns the doorknob. The door glides open, smooth and silent, and he stands up, walks inside, followed by Dean, without either of them sparing a word. 

Empty houses don't hold any fear for the Winchesters; they've seen enough in their day and they've already burned Wellby's body. They're here now and, from what Sam can tell, Wellby isn't. Dean's got the EMF out and it's silent, no lights either, and dawn clears up enough of the darkness for Sam to see the room they're in without having to squint. This is a mudroom, looks like it had to have been clean even before the realtor came through, connected to a laundry that smells of detergent and bleach. 

"You read the guy's life history," Dean mutters, going through the doorway. Sam follows, walks past a half-bath and comes out into the den. "What would he be hanging on for?" Dean looks down at the EMF and then up at Sam. "You getting anything?" 

Sam raises an eyebrow, asks, "You don't care if I check?" 

Dean's lips flatten minutely but he shakes his head and turns the EMF off, shoves it in a pocket. "Like keeping my hands free more than I don't like the fact that you can do that. Turn it on, Miss Cleo." 

"Jerk," Sam murmurs; he drops the barrier and reels immediately as either he locks onto Wellby or Wellby locks onto him. Dean reaches out, grips Sam's elbow, and the feel of Dean floods through Sam, hot and tight. He's dropped more than one barrier, must have; he struggles to figure out which ones and puts them back up as fast as he can. "Whoa," he adds, once that's done and he's separating the different elements of the supernatural in this house. 

"Whoa? Talk to me, Sam. What the hell's going on?" Dean asks, looking around, gun in the hand that isn't holding Sam up. 

Sam closes his eyes, catalogues everything that still shines through his eyelids. "Two books on the shelf over there," he points. "An urn by the television. Something up in the kitchen, maybe a. Wait. Oh, fuck." 

Dean's silent, tense, and he says, as soon as Sam drops off, "Books, urn, something in the kitchen. We're dealing with, what, a witch? Is he," Dean starts to say, stops. 

"No," Sam replies, opening his eyes to meet his brother's gaze. "He's not one of hell's. Maybe not a witch. Something earth-based; Wiccan? That might explain why he's still here. He doesn't want to go on and can't, probably, thanks to his spellwork. He's tied himself to them or he's gone dark, something." 

Dean swears, quick and precise. Sam shivers, turns to look behind them. The hallway's dark, lightening as dawn starts to pour through the windows and pool in patches on walls and floor. There's nothing there but Sam can _feel_ something pinging his radar like crazy. "Dean?" he says. "Dean, I don't think." 

That's as far as he gets before something grabs his feet and drops him to the floor before yanking him over to the wall, slamming him head-first into the panelling. Wellby, Sam thinks, as the pressure leaves and he puts one hand to his head, feeling blood. 

"Sam!" Dean's yelling from six feet away. By the time Sam gets his eyes working, Dean's kneeling next to him, checking the injury. "The hell? He get the jump on you like that or did you let him?" 

Dean looks furious. 

"Behind you," Sam whispers. "He's." Dean whirls, throws a handful of salt at the manifestation of Mark Wellby. The ghost disintegrates, pieces swirling around the room like confetti, gathering up the power to manifest again. 

"Don't do anything," Dean orders. "Stay there. You'll have a concussion, at least." 

Sam closes his eyes, feels the power of the ghost growing, coalescing into a storm of malevolence. This, he can handle: the throbbing pain in his head, the blood drying on his scalp and in a line on his forehead, the feeling of _wrong_ getting stronger with every second. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, lets it out through his mouth, feels his dick pressing against his jeans. Shit. 

"Burn it," Dean's saying, talking to himself. "Burn it all. Damn good thing the idiot has a fireplace." 

Dean takes off for the kitchen and Sam sits up, leaning against the wall, staring at the centre of Wellby's corona of power. He tries to bind it with his own power, keep it from striking out at Dean. He succeeds, for the most part, but then Wellby takes form again. Dean's lighting a fire and can't be disturbed. Sam sends a flare of his gifts outwards, distracts Wellby, and is slammed against the wall again a second later. Instead of letting him go, though, Wellby steps towards him, head tilted to one side. The smell of burning books clutters Sam's nostrils as Wellby reaches out one hand. 

Sam can _see_ the ghost's power shoot out from Wellby's fingertips, doesn't have time to do anything before that power's choking him. He can feel it tight around his neck like fishing line, nylon rope, and it burns as Sam struggles, burns as it cuts off his air supply. He gasps for breath, eyes watering, and tries to use his own talents to cut the ghost's power away. He's getting close but he's also getting light-headed, stars sparking into being on the edges of his vision. He shifts to the left, loses feeling in his toes. He shifts to the right, hands trying to physically pull at the psychic power. He can't breathe and can't think, is blacking out, and he feels so, so good. 

\--

Sam coughs his way back into consciousness, one hand clutching at his throat. Nothing's there save a raised line of skin, not broken but definitely painful to the touch. He probably looks like the victim of a botched garrotting but doesn't much care, not when he moves and feels a damp spot inside of his jeans. Sam swallows, coughs, and sits up, hunches over. 

"What'd you do?" Dean asks. One hand gingerly touches Sam's shoulder; Sam flinches and doesn't look up. "I know it was coming after me. What did you do?" 

"Distracted him," Sam answers. His voice is rough like gravel. "Is he gone?" 

Dean squeezes Sam's shoulder then lets go. "Like Britney's reputation. You, uh. You want me to go grab some. From the car?"

There went all hope of Dean not noticing. Sam nods, doesn't trust his throat, doesn't trust his voice. Dean starts to walk out to the car, pauses, carries on again a moment later. Sam doesn't call his brother back. 

It's stupid enough to attract a ghost's attention the way Sam did but it's embarrassing to know he didn't fight back. He _couldn't_. He aches for Lilith's collar, the sign of her favour, her care, and having something so tight around his throat reminded him of that, of _her_. He misses the weight of her collar, the weight of collars and chains he's worn during his sojourn among demons here on earth, the feeling of the necklace Ruby gave him, tight and rough, there every time he swallowed, every time he talked. 

He touches his neck, the thin welt, trails his fingernail along two inches of white-hot pain. He shudders, feels his dick twitch, hangs his head. Touching his neck has become a nervous gesture, one Dean's already picked up on, one Sam's tried and failed to stop. Until this heals, it's going to be that much worse. Already, every day he wakes up without something thick and heavy on his throat is a day that gets off to a bad start; every night he goes to bed with just the memory of weight and pressure around his neck is a night he dreams of Lilith, holding a collar and waiting for him. Now he has pain to go along with the memory. 

"You need a minute?" Dean asks. Sam looks up just in time to get a face-full of clean clothes. He stands, grimaces at the feeling in his underwear. Dean looks disturbed under the mocking grin. "I'll be in the kitchen, princess. Let me know when you're done." 

Sam rolls his eyes, doesn't bother waiting to undo his jeans, shuck them off. His boxer-briefs are sticky, cold, and he peels them off with a relieved sigh. Pulling on the clean ones is the work of a minute, the jeans just a second longer, and it's as he's making sure the pockets are right that he feels a suspiciously familiar piece of hemp in the left pocket. Sam takes out the necklace Ruby gave him that first time he saw her after he came back from hell, holds it in his palm and studies the amulets. He folds his dirty clothes, leaves them on the floor, and walks into the kitchen, a bright, white room with hints of yellow and lime-green scattered here and there. Dean turns to look at him and Sam holds out the hand with the choker on it, his silence a more eloquent question than he himself could come up with. 

Dean shrugs. "Yeah?" 

"You didn't get rid of it?" Sam asks. His brother's playing this one casual but Sam can pick out all of Dean's tells: the tightening of the skin around his eyes, shoulders hunched the slightest bit, teeth chewing on the skin inside his mouth. Sam knows he sounds like a confused little child when he adds, "I thought you got rid of it." He can't help it, though. 

"Tried," Dean admits. "It wouldn't burn. I buried it one night and found it in the trunk the next morning. Tossed it in the Mississippi while you were out; came back to the room and it was on my pillow. Figured it didn't want to get left behind." He pauses, then asks, ""What's it mean?"

Sam pulls his hand back close to his chest, traces the charms, shrugs. "Each amulet is a demon I owe loyalty to." A loyalty due to blood ties, Sam thinks but doesn't say. It represents his family: father, mother, and whatever Ruby's supposed to be, sister or lover or co-ruler, maybe all of them. "A sign in case we run into any others. They'll know who I am this way." 

Dean doesn't say anything for a long moment, then asks, "I thought they knew you anyway? The witch did, and those ones in Miami, Famine. General, they called you. They didn't need that." 

"A sign of who I have to answer to, then," Sam says. He tears his eyes away from the necklace and rests them on Dean. "Why?" 

"You weren't fighting it, Sam." Sam shakes his head, confused, and Dean adds, "That ghost. He was strangling you and you weren't fighting back. Sure, you didn't want it coming after me, but there's distraction and then there's suicide. If that thing'll make you feel better, fine. I don't like it but I'd rather see you wearing that than worry about you giving up the next time something lays hands on you." Dean shifts his weight, looks away, clearly uncomfortable. He gestures at Sam, says, "'Sides, it'll cover that up. And, y'know. If you don't mind the way it'll." He stops again. 

Sam's uncommonly touched. He wants to reach out and feel his fingers against Dean's skin, wants to thank Dean with something more than a nod, but Dean's already withdrawing from the conversation topic and Sam doesn't want to push his luck. "Thanks," he says. "Will you." 

He turns around, lifts up his hair with one hand, holds the choker over his shoulder with the other. He waits for the sound of Dean moving, boots on wood. It takes a couple minutes before the noise comes, another minute before Dean takes the necklace from Sam's hand. A touch, so brief and light that Sam's sure he imagined it, on his raised welt has him shivering. Dean wraps the choker around Sam's neck, pulls it tight to get the metal clasps close to one another. The hemp rubs against the line Wellby left and Sam takes a deep breath as Dean finally gets the clasp done and lets the hemp relax a little. 

Sam swallows, feels the pain inside his throat, feels the hemp rub his welt. He lets out a breath he's been holding for weeks.

"Come on," Dean says, already halfway out of the kitchen and through the den. "Grab your clothes. Let's get out of here before anyone calls the cops on us." 

Coffeyville isn't even a speck in their rear-view when they pull into a McDonald's drive-thru for coffee, Egg McMuffins, and hash browns. 

\--

Sam gets a phone call two days later when Dean's in the shower. He's half-heartedly flipping between a Sopranos re-run on A&E and MSNBC's morning programming, half-heartedly packing, and the sudden noise makes him jump. With a guilty look at the closed bathroom door -- and a wince at the racket Dean calls 'singing' -- Sam picks up the phone. It's not a number he has in his phone book or recognises off the top of his head. 

"Hello?" he asks. 

"You've been thinking of me, Prince." The title means he's talking to a demon and the female voice doesn't mean a thing when it comes to who might be possessing her. Sam knows without having to drop his barriers that it isn't Ruby, isn't Vetis, definitely isn't Lilith. "Trying to summon me, I'd say, like one of the uncultured Anakim. Is there something I should be made aware of, Prince?"

Sam looks again at the bathroom door. He hasn't been trying to summon anyone from hell, has no clue what this demon is talking about. His mind races, trying to find a connection, a hint, anything. Anakim, that's a good starting point, and he thinks he remembers Lilith saying something about the other psychic children, that _all_ psychic children have demonic ancestry, some further back than others but nonetheless present. If this demon is saying what Sam thinks she is, then any true psychic has the ability to summon demons. He thinks of Ava and the Acheri demon, shudders with the realisation that there are humans with _power_ walking on the earth. 

"You have only to say the word, Prince, and I will wreak bloody vengeance on whoever has wronged you," she says when Sam stays silent. Her voice drops to a purr as she goes on to say, "I will always serve you, Samuel. You and I, we are tied together so tightly, isn't that what our queen said? They will pay, Samuel. Tell me who you wish to suffer and I will see it happen at my hands." 

Wrath. Wrath is fucking _calling_ him on the _phone_. He looks askance at his cell, sees the phone number flash: the local three-digit prefix, followed by 1134. Hell has a sense of humour, how cute. He chooses to focus on his disbelief, his utter amazement at this phone call, rather than the way her words stir something deep inside of him, something that wants to hurt and punish and destroy. 

Dean's shower turns off and Sam says, "Don't call me again," before ending the call and tossing his phone on the bed, staring at it. 

"Bathroom's yours," Dean says, door open and a cloud of steam rushing outwards from behind him, instantly warming the air a couple degrees. 

"Yeah," Sam says, still staring at his phone. "Right. Thanks." 

The phone vibrates, then Sam's text message music comes on, plays through once. He doesn't make any move toward the phone. Dean's watching him and it's the weight of that gaze that finally propels him forward to pick up the phone. 

_i'll send caesinha then. u'll like that 1. m/f?_

Sam blinks, types back, _GO AWAY_.

He turns the phone off, locks himself into the bathroom without remembering to pick up his underwear first.

\--

Dean gives him strange looks the rest of the week when he thinks Sam won’t notice. As attuned as he is to his brother, Sam’s aware of each and every one. In his less charitable moments, Sam even thinks that he can feel Dean’s eyes watching him when they’re both sleeping -- or meant to be asleep. Either it’s some strange side effect of his gifts or he’s gotten used to the lack but he doesn’t usually need more than a couple hours of sleep each night. He wakes rested and it hasn’t started affecting him during the day. Dean doesn’t know so Sam won’t get yelled at and it gives Sam a chance to have some time to himself, to breathe and think and sit and just _be_.

It’s been a week since the strange phone call from Wrath and the text message she’d sent as well; Sam’s been paranoid ever since about some random demon showing up. He’d tried to hide it, hadn’t gone online to do any research, but it’s three in the morning and he’s awake while Dean isn’t. Sam pulls the laptop up to the bed, positions it so that the glow shouldn’t wake Dean, opens it. 

He types in ‘ _caesinha_ ,’ the name Wrath had mentioned and Google comes up blank. Wikipedia does as well and Sam opens his del.icio.us page, starts going through his demonology resources. He eventually strikes gold. 

Caésinha, a demon from the sixth circle, is one of those that answers to Pride. Sam vaguely remembers him from hell, a tall, willowy demon with old, knowing eyes and a smirk to top the best that Vetis could ever come up. He's not sure why Wrath is intent on sending a demon to him, much less one associated with a different member of the seven, still isn't entirely sure why Wrath called him in the first place. There's only so much that can be explained by sympathy when it comes to hell, after all. 

\--

It takes three weeks before Sam finally figures out why he feels as if he's under more scrutiny than just Dean's. He's been on edge for a fortnight now, feeling eyes rake over him every time he stepped outside of a motel room. Irritated and jumpy, Sam eventually tells Dean he's going for a run. When he gets a mile away from the motel, he drops his barrier and immediately gets hit with a demonic presence, close. Sam sighs, says, "Come out already." 

A child in a playground across the street stands at the chain-link fence, her pudgy little fingers holding the wire. "Play with me?" she asks. 

Sam looks at her, ready to give her a kind refusal, but stops when he takes note of ink-black eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. "You've already been playing with me, Caésinha. I don't appreciate it." 

"Sorry," she says, completely unrepentant. "Will you play with me now? Will you push me on the swings? No one will push me on the swings." 

"No," Sam snaps. "And get out of that child. I'll meet you at the edge of the park in fifteen minutes and you'd better have a suitable host at that time. Understood?"

The child giggles, cheeks pinking. "Yes, sir," she says, and turns, runs back towards the swings.

Sam shakes his head and tries not to let his barriers down with the surge of fury running through his body. He might be the prince of hell and demons might need hosts to stay on earth but he _hates_ it when they use children. 

He looks once more at the park, sees a black cloud hovering above the unconscious body of a child. There are people shouting already, running over to the child, and Sam would swear that Caésinha winks at him before dissipating into the air. Sam growls under his breath and starts to jog again. The park isn't that far away but if he goes down one of the neighbourhood's cul-de-sacs, he'll add some time and distance. Better to make one of Pride's minions wait. 

\--

Sam arrives at the edge of the park twenty-two minutes later, staring at the sort of host that Caésinha deems suitable. He wouldn't call a girl that can't be more than fifteen entirely appropriate but Caésinha's already possessed a _child_. He shouldn't be surprised. 

"Are you still displeased, Prince?" Caésinha asks, stepping forward. The host's body is slender, much as the demon's natural form, tall and willowy, with a half-vacant air on her face. Caésinha swings her narrow hips, absently shakes blonde hair out of her face when the wind blows it everywhere. The demon fingers the top-most button of the teen's shirt, looks at Sam from under her eyelashes. "I will make it up to you if you wish. I would be most happy to do so." 

"How old is she?" Sam asks, voice tight. It's one thing to fuck the body Ruby's been wearing for at least a year and a half now, knowing the human's dead, something else entirely to be offered so casually the use of a girl who might still be a virgin and is well underage. 

Caésinha smiles, showing teeth. She walks closer, looking down at the ground as if she's shy, scuffing the toes of her black Converse oxfords. Once she's close enough, she reaches out, traces one finger down Sam's chest. "Why do you care? I'm offering you the use of her body, Prince. Is she not most pleasing?" Caésinha steps closer, until the tips of her shoes are touching Sam's. She looks at Sam, murmurs, "I know you, Prince. Our queen told me all about your hungers. Use me as you wish; I came prepared." 

"You came like an idiot," Sam hisses, backing away. "You don't know me half as well as you think you do, offering me this." 

The demon doesn't follow Sam this time, instead tilting her head to one side. Her eyes drop to his neck for a moment, studying the amulets woven into his necklace. "You haven't questioned the use of other humans. Why this one?" 

Sam takes a deep breath. "She's still a child, Caésinha."

"A virgin," Caésinha says. "Think of the power you could amass from her sacrifice." She says that straight-forwardly, no dissembling, and it's not until her tone changes, warm and conspiratorial, that Sam understands. "Every demon within a certain radius. You're still human enough to survive but there's enough of the queen in you to affect her."

Everything in the world narrows down to the gaze Sam has pinned on the demon in front of him. Caésinha is advocating a coup, the gross destruction of half of hell and Lilith along with it. If he wasn't already convinced that the demon had earned her place among Pride's cohorts, Sam's convinced of Caésinha's allegiance now. 

He doesn't argue with her implications; there wouldn't be a point. He _is_ human enough to survive the ritual and Lilith _would_ die. He could take over hell in a heartbeat after that and no one would argue. Sam lets it go, files away the possibility, and sees the demon smile. "Why are you here?" Sam asks. 

This time, the demon gives him an honest answer. "To serve," she says. "Pride said that none but one of hers would be able to do the job properly." Sam starts to protest but Caésinha holds up one hand. He stops, eyes narrowed, and lets her finish. "Your right hand will roam to do your bidding, will rarely be with you, and the princess has her own duties to attend to. Yes, you could summon either of them at a moment's notice and yes, they will show up on their own from time to time, but you are in need of a servant at your beck and call. Pride's cohort are the best and, of them, I will serve in the greatest possible way."

Sam eyes the demon, finally says, "Even if I say no, you're going to stay, aren't you." Caésinha doesn't have to answer that one. "Fine," Sam says. He finds the link between them, plucks at it. Caésinha's mouth opens as she sways, pupils dilated, and Sam strengthens the bond until it hums. He holds it, then, and says, "But no one younger than seventeen. And no virgins." He waits until Caésinha nods, power-drunk, before setting down the tie between them.

Caésinha drops to one knee though she doesn't bow her head. She meets Sam's eyes, grins and shows teeth, the expression feral on, what had been up until now, a vaguely spaced-out kid. "There is honour among thieves, Lord," she says, "and plenty of sheep for the shearing." 

"Lord?" Sam asks, offering Caésinha a hand and helping the demon to stand again. 

"Are you not?" she asks innocently. "That's what they called _him_. Lord, Saviour, Master." 

Sam raises an eyebrow. "They also called him Prince of Peace and Light of the World." 

Caésinha reaches out one hand, strokes Sam's forehead. She has to stand on her tiptoes. "We have our own definitions of peace and light, Lord. I will abide by your wishes and find a new host. I will never be more than a call away."

The demon leaves the host and Sam nods as Caésinha hovers, waiting to be dismissed. Once again, he watches the black cloud disperse, blending in with the air. He crouches down, shakes the girl, and, after she's opened her eyes, blinking at him owlishly, says, "Are you all right?"

"Where am I?" she asks, struggling to sit up. 

Sam helps her, says, "The back of the park. I was out jogging and saw your shoes. You have a home to go to?" She nods, rubs her forehead. "Best get going, then." She nods, absently, and walks off, weaving slightly as she goes. 

There's really no way to explain this to Dean so Sam doesn't even try. He finishes his jog, goes back to the room, and isn't at all surprised to see an unfamiliar man with eyes black as night walking into the room next to his. 

\--

Between juggling Caésinha's constant presence and Dean's increased surveillance, Sam's almost back to the state he was in near Boise. He jumps at the slightest noise, spends more and more time not talking, can't ever seem to stop from stroking the necklace, takes out his frustration on a willing Caésinha when he can. Dean's upped their amount of sparring and Sam's constantly wearing bruises and cuts now that his brother isn't holding back any punches. 

The pain feels good at the same time it hurts, catching a shoe to the kidney one day, a knife to the shoulder-blade the next, but Dean ruins it by fretting, by looking guilty, and by treating this as a chore more than anything else. Sometimes Sam thinks that Dean's taking the easy way out. They need to spar anyway. This is a necessity, something he'd be getting but perhaps not to the same extent, and it makes Sam feel more and more as if his brother's putting him off and refusing to do what he said he would. 

Every time Sam gets skittish enough to wish he'd accepted Lilith's offer to stay in hell, he takes off while Dean's asleep, finding Caésinha and summoning Sonneillon. The three of them fight and fuck and Sam's become a connoisseur of the myriad ways one person can hurt another without leaving a mark. It's all that keeps him sane, sometimes, and Sonneillon tells him time and time again to not let it get that bad, usually while he's helping Sam get dressed so he can return to Dean without his brother ever the wiser. 

Once or twice, Sam thinks that maybe Dean knows, wonders if Dean's ever woken up in the middle of the night and didn't see Sam. He doesn't want to know for sure, though. The idea that Dean has a clue but hasn't done anything despite his promise is enough at any given moment to run Sam's veins with fury. Sonneillon learns not to bring up the subject after Sam nearly destroys him in his rage. 

Caésinha doesn't need to be told and Sam finds he appreciates that. He isn't afraid to go to Caésinha and starts calling on the demon for small tasks, helping them with their hunts, sending him ahead to warn any demons Dean might run across, using Caésinha's constant presence as an anchor. He shouldn't, he knows, but he can't help himself. 

\--

The more time goes by without much change in their normal routine, the more Dean starts to react to Sam touching his necklace, rubbing his neck. Sam knows it bothers Dean but not how much until Ruby drops by unexpectedly. 

They're sitting in a diner waiting for breakfast, two days after wiping out a nest of _erqigdlit_. They're travelling haphazardly to the next hunt, eight states over, mostly because Dean's right leg has a huge bite mark healing very slowly and Sam's entire body is aching as it works to replenish what Dean's pretty sure was three liters of Sam's blood. He'd almost dragged Sam in to the nearest hospital for a transfusion but hadn't in the end; why, Sam's not sure.

The waitress comes by to refill their coffee and Sam gives her a fleeting, tired smile before turning his attention back to the table. He gets a knock on his barriers three seconds before Ruby's sliding in next to him and Dean's glaring. The guy at the counter, business type reading the Journal, gives Sam a look but doesn't otherwise react. 

"The hell are you doing here?" Dean asks Ruby, voice low so as not to carry over to the handful of other people eating breakfast. 

"Thought I'd drop in and check on my two favourite humans," Ruby snaps back, laying her arm along the back of the booth, fingers stroking Sam's shoulder right where one of the _erqigdlit_ dug teeth in and sucked. Sam shivers, swallows and closes his eyes, focusing on the sensation. Dean growls but Sam doesn't care. 

The waitress stops back, asks if Ruby wants anything, and she looks up, gives the woman a blinding grin. "I'll eat off his plate," she says, nodding at Sam. "I could go for a chocolate milkshake, though?" The waitress nods, and Ruby grins. "That time of the month," she says, and the waitress smiles sympathetically. 

Dean snorts. 

"What's your problem, Dean?" Ruby asks. "I thought we were okay. We got along so _well_ last time." 

Sam watches as Dean opens his mouth, hates to think what's going to come out. He's taken off-guard when Dean presses his lips together, glances at Sam before looking back at Ruby. "What's the deal with Sam's neck?" Sam's heart skips a beat and his vision goes blurry as Ruby digs her nails into the wound on his shoulder, the heel of her boot digging into the top of his foot at the same time. 

Ruby raises an eyebrow, tells the waitress thanks as she gets her chocolate milkshake. She takes a long sip, cheeks hollowing to a degree halfway past pornographic into ridiculous, shudders. "Brain freeze," she explains. "Fuck me, but if we could take these things down home, we'd never have to leave again. What d'you mean, what's up with Sam's neck? Looks fine to me, if a bit." She pauses, eyes the necklace and the otherwise untouched skin. "Too pristine." 

With Dean on the other side of the table, Ruby leans, latches her lips to Sam's neck and bites. Sam keeps his eyes on his brother. Dean shifts even as Sam tilts his head to give Ruby better access. She pulls away and Sam reaches up to touch his neck, gingerly feels out the edges of the bruise and casually wipes away the small drop of blood. Sam can feel Caésinha watching them, can feel Caésinha's amusement. 

Dean looks -- Sam's not sure he can categorise the expression currently resting on Dean's face. Repugnance is there, definitely, as is complete disbelief, but there's something underneath the disgust that Sam's never seen on his brother's face before. 

"What about his neck?" Ruby asks, almost too innocently. 

"He's always," Dean starts to say, then gestures. 

He nearly hits the waitress as she's coming by with food and he apologises, skin around his eyes tight. The waitress' eyes linger on them all, taking in Sam's new hickey and Dean's glare, and it's not until she turns away from Dean that Sam sees the black tint to her eyes. Ruby snorts and Sam ducks his head, picks up a fork and feeds Ruby the first bite from his plate. 

Dean's watching them carefully, doesn't seem to like what he sees and Sam isn't surprised that that gives Dean the impetus to finish his sentence. "He's always touching his neck," Dean says. "He never takes that stupid necklace off, he comes when something strangles him, he's. I saw them whipping him, once, and he was chained, hands and neck. He's _always_ touching his neck and stroking those amulets." 

Sam puts one hand under the table, squeezes Ruby's thigh. She looks at him and Sam shakes his head. "Don't," he murmurs. 

"Sam, don't you," Dean starts to say. Sam looks up, pins his eyes on his brother, the full weight of hell's power behind his gaze. Dean swallows but still manages to look at Ruby and ask, again, "What's the deal?" 

"I," Ruby says. She stops, her throat working but no words coming out. "Sam." Again, her voice fails her. She glares at Sam, gets out of the booth. "You are going to have to tell him one day, _Prince_ ," she says, too low for Dean to hear the velvet-covered steel purr of her tone. 

She leaves, stalking out of the diner. The waitress clucks her tongue and says, "Poor thing." 

Dean looks at her askance and Sam sighs. 

\--

Dean eats and doesn't say a word. Sam's tense and hunched over, playing with his food and not eating it. 

"It's getting worse, isn't it," Dean says half an hour later, once he's scraped his plate clean and had another cinnamon roll and pot of coffee. Sam jumps, gives his brother a questioning look. "You. You're all." Dean stops, gestures vaguely. The skin around his eyes looks drawn tight. Sam knows how it feels. "Well. If you're not going to eat, we should get out of here and take care of that." 

Sam's stunned, follows his brother without saying a word. 

Dean takes him back to the motel room. Once they're both inside, coats off, Dean asks, "Second thoughts?" Sam shakes his head and reels in shock the next second when Dean punches him square in the eye. 

"Oh, mother _fuck_ ," Sam hisses, eyes watering. He reaches up, gingerly, and can feel the skin starting to swell already. "You just had to go for the eye, huh?" 

"Do you know," Dean says, too casually, "that's the longest sentence you've said in three days?" 

Sam blinks, says, "No, it isn't. There was," and stops, trying to think. "Oh." 

"Yeah." Dean takes a breath as if he's going to say more but then doesn't; Sam looks at Dean and his heart stutters. Dean's reaching up, fingertips pressed against his forehead, high near the hairline. Sam can see blood. "You do this?" Dean asks. 

Checking his barriers first, just in case, Sam breathes out, "No. Dean, what." 

Dean turns away, stalks to the bathroom. "I don't know," he bites out. 

The bleeding stops quickly and heals even faster. An hour later, as they're driving away from the motel, there's no sign it ever happened. Shivers run down Sam's back. He longs to touch Dean, to sweep the pads of his fingers over Dean's skin and feel for himself that his brother's all right. Sam sits on his hands and fixes his gaze out of the window.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean doesn't make any comment about the punch. Dean doesn't talk about anything other than the hunts they're on for a full month. He doesn't mention the women he fucks or the men he gets into fights with. He doesn't talk about the Impala or Bobby or Sam's increasing number of disappearances. 

Sam doesn't push. It feels like Dean's waiting for something, some moment or sign, but Sam has no clue what or when or why. He gives Dean distance and spends more time with Caésinha. He can feel himself losing grip on some sort of moral code but the slide is sticky-slow like honey and twice as sweet. 

Things, generally, are uncomfortable. Sam's waiting for Dean to do something or say something and if Dean's waiting for something, Sam doesn't know what it might be. 

It comes to a head in Tacoma, a small bar with broken neon in the window and a pool table only good for stacking things on top of. Dean gets into it with a bunch of guys while Sam's in a corner booth checking his email and trying to ignore Caésinha at the other end of the place. They end up getting thrown out of the place, Dean with a split lip and a black eye, Sam with a broken nose, a wicked cut down one side of his face, and the urge to set half the city on fire. 

The motel room they go back to feels so small as to be claustrophobic. Sam takes off the top two layers of shirts until he's only wearing a white t-shirt. He sits on the edge of the bed, Dean standing between his spread legs and reaching down to sew up the slice on Sam's face. Dean steadies one hand on the curve of Sam's jaw, the other pressing lightly to keep the two sides of the cut next to each other; he doesn't meet Sam's eyes. Part of that, Sam knows, is focus and he appreciates it. Part of it is cowardice, though, and that's the part Sam hates. That's the part that has Sam wanting to push his brother away and stalk down the row of rooms to find Caésinha. 

"This isn't working, is it," Dean says, six stitches in. 

Sam isn't sure what his brother means, fingers twitching as he resists the urge to reach out for a different piece of catgut. "We picked up some new," he starts to say, trailing off when Dean presses his lips together, then lets them slide apart, licks them. They glisten in the poor light. 

"That's not what I meant," Dean says. 

There's nothing to say to that and Dean has a needle two inches from Sam's eye. That sort of stops Sam from asking any questions. He waits, doesn't move, and starts wondering how long Dean's been thinking about this. He feels ashamed of himself, thick curls of guilt eating up his belly, sick to his stomach. Sam swallows, lets his eyes drop so there's no chance he might meet Dean's. 

Dean sighs, finishes the sutures up in peace. As soon as he's disinfected the needle and downed half a glass of Jack, he asks, "What the hell are we supposed to be doing, Sam?" He has his back to Sam, is standing next to the desk, and Sam imagines Dean's hands grasping the edge of the desk, knuckles white under the bruises. The line Dean's shoulders make is tense, straight. 

"What," Sam starts to say. He stops, lifts one hand to rub the amulets on his necklace. He can feel the bonds with Vetis and Caésinha throbbing; they're waiting, attuned to his mood. He clears his throat. "What do you mean, Dean?" 

"Us," Dean replies. "This." He turns, rubbing one hand over his face as he does. Sam looks at his brother, sees the circles under Dean's eyes, the pale skin under freckles and fresh bruises, the sore and bleeding light to his eyes. "We can't." He stops again, lets out a huff of annoyance and frustration. Dean picks up the bottle of Jack, half full, and tosses it over to Sam before grabbing a full bottle of Cuervo. "Drink." 

Sam stares at his brother. "Dean?" 

Dean bares his teeth. "Fucking _drink_ , Sam." 

Put like that, Sam doesn't have a choice except to drink or walk out. At this point, as fractured as they are under a surface that works thanks to years of practice, Sam leaving would mean Sam never coming back. He can't do that. As much as Dean pisses him the hell off sometimes, Sam won't leave his brother. As difficult as this is, he's left three times and died twice, he's given himself to hell in Dean's place and chosen Dean over Lilith. He might covet space from time to time, might want more than he has any right to expect, but he doesn't want to leave. He won't. 

Sam untwists the cap, lets it drop to the floor. Eyes fixed on Dean's, Sam lifts the bottle to his lips and tilts his head back. He swallows once, twice, a dozen times, until the bottle is significantly lighter and the burn in his throat has moved from warm to hellfire-hot. 

He brings the bottle away from his mouth and stares at his brother. He's done what Dean's asked even though he doesn't know the reason behind the command. He's listened, despite the confusion, and feels something click when Dean starts to chug the tequila, not his favourite drink of choice. This will be a turning point, then, something that speaks to the part of him that knows what kinds of keystones entire lives are based on, what moments shape a person and are central to their faultlines. 

Dean grimaces when he sets the bottle down on the desk, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. He fixes his eyes on Sam, halfway to being narrowed, entirely focused. "Tell me something about hell, Sam," he says. Sam's heart skips a beat. "If you had scars, where would they be? Where would the first scar they gave you be? The very first time they hurt you, after they took you away and that bitch demon put me in limbo. Where would it be?"

Sam shakes his head, eyes wide as they search Dean's face. "Dean," he says. "Dean, no. Come on, man. You don't want to do this."

"Yes," Dean snaps. "Yes, I do." He looks haunted, small in his defiance. 

It takes all the wind out of Sam's sails. He's done that. He's done that to his own brother, to _Dean_. If he had to do it all over, from the beginning, he would, without hesitation. What does it say about him, that he'd willingly put Dean through this again? What does it say about him that this look is the one he's responding to, rather than the raging, the silent accusations, the guilt? Dean looks like he's one man standing against all of hell by himself, a figure on a horizon, small and solitary, with no hope of survival and a bitter satisfaction in the same fact. 

"The tattoo," Sam says. He's quiet, part of him hoping that the tone will make the words bypass Dean's hearing. "They said the tattoo was strong and so they needed to get rid of it." 

Dean's paled but he's determined to get an answer, to get _something_ , determined to get anything, Sam thinks. "How?" he asks. 

Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat. He looks away, looks down at the bottle of whiskey in his hands. "It was on fire," Sam says. "On fire and smoking. Being in hell, it." He shakes his head. Dean didn't ask about that. "Lilith traced over it with her fingers. Sycorax licked it and his lips smoked from the tattoo's power. Between the two of them, that burn might have been enough to scar over the ink." 

"They didn't let you keep it," Dean says. "You don't have it anymore. What did they do?" 

A swallow of Jack helps, liquid courage in the best way. "Sycorax ripped the skin off with his teeth," Sam says, caught in the memory, phantom pain making him shiver. "Lilith healed me instantly, enough to take the pain away. That's when they shaved my head. Sycorax used a rusted knife and hacked at my hair before he took the knife and shaved me. It wasn't a sharp knife. It caught on my skin, over and over." Sam looks up at his brother, sees Dean's eyes, dark and filled with tears. Sam shrugs. "They healed me, of course. Lilith did. Every time. They wanted me to be there, with them, to feel everything as if it was the first thing. But the hair. I missed my hair." 

Dean chokes back something, moves until he's kneeling between Sam's legs, the bottle of whiskey set to one side. He reaches up hesitantly, brushes fingers over Sam's forehead, then up through Sam's hair, skimming over the scalp. Sam's not breathing, holding himself perfectly still. Whatever penance this is, whatever punishment Dean's putting himself through, Dean doesn't deserve it. Dean is blameless in this.

"It was my choice," Sam murmurs. 

Dean's fingers cup the back of Sam's skull before sliding down. "Shut up," Dean says. He leans up and forward, pushes Sam's t-shirt up until he's eye-level with the skin where Sam used to have a tattoo. Sam closes his eyes; Dean's lips ghost over the skin, the way Sam used to kiss the beads of his mother's rosary: light, reverent, full of disbelief and hope and awe. 

Sam swallows, the sound almost audible in the silent room. "Dean?" he asks, voice wavering, cracking. 

"I'm supposed to protect you," Dean says. His breath, this close, reeks of tequila, sour underneath from bourbon and beer at the bar. "I'm supposed to. You weren't supposed to do that, Sam." 

Dean isn't drunk but he has to be close to it. Neither of them have had much sleep recently and they've both stopped eating more than once a day. Funny to think that in these conditions, Sam would rather have Dean wielding a needle two inches from his eye than talking to him. 

He clenches his hands, won't let them reach up to take Dean's face as he's wanted to do for years, won't let them rest on Dean's shoulders, won't lean on Dean's strength or ask Dean for anything. With everything -- hell and human both -- in him screaming to close the distance between them, Sam leans backwards, away from his brother. He's used to doing that, at least. 

"Sam," Dean says. He reaches his hands up, runs them both through Sam's hair. "Did you. Why? _Why_?"

"Because you're my brother," Sam says, nerves tingling. "Because you did it for me." Because Sam lived through Dean dying before and can't ever do it again. 

Dean makes that choking noise again, then moves enough to press his lips against Sam's. "Wasn't your job," he murmurs, pushing Sam to the bed, holding him there with one hand over the place where Sam's matching tattoo should be. The look in his eyes is wild, desperate. Sam's terrified; Dean is horrifically unpredictable when he's emotional, doubly so when he's drunk. "But you're here now. Tell me, Sam. Tell me you're here. With _me_." 

"Come on," Sam says, trying to smile, pushing against the pressure of Dean's hand, wanting nothing more than to run away and find Caésinha, summon Sonneillon and be whipped to within an inch of his life before being fucked past human sensation. "Let me up, Dean." 

"Tell me," Dean orders. 

Sam snorts even as his eyes are skittering around the room. "Of course I'm here. Dude, where did you think I was, fucking Maine? Come on, move." 

Dean shakes his head, moves to straddle Sam, presses his other hand on Sam's other shoulder. "You," he says, and Sam can see the panic in the back of Dean's eyes now, swimming somewhere underneath the liquor and the fatigue. "Stay with _me_."

If Dean's not talking about the demon six rooms away, Sam's not going to bring Caésinha up by asking if that's what Dean's referring to. "Dean," he says, voice as soft as his entire body is tense, "I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm not leaving. Someone has to make sure you don't do anything stupid like selling your soul again." 

"I'd do it," Dean says. His voice is starting to waver. "I'd do it again, Sam. I'd do it in a heartbeat."

"So would I," Sam murmurs.

Dean moves a hand, traces over the amulets on Sam's necklace, nail following the carved lines of Lilith's sigil. "Because of them?" 

They help, there's no denying that, but Sam wouldn't do it for them. He didn't do it for them. He fought them every inch of the way, forced them into crucifying him and killing him to become what they wanted him to become. Yes, he hides in them, with them, and yes, he's losing his humanity a little more every day, but he never wanted any of it. 

"No," he says. 

Dean, above him, shudders, rolls off and unsteadily takes three steps before collapsing on to the other bed, laying down, shoes and belt and all. "I never thought they'd turn you into a masochist," Dean says. Sam turns his head and raises an eyebrow. "You used to whine for hours every time you stubbed a toe." 

"I was _five_ ," Sam retorts. "I'm not five anymore, Dean. When was the last time I whined about stubbing my toe?" 

"You're not a lot of things anymore," Dean says. Sam stares at his brother but Dean's focused on the ceiling. Whether that's because the ceiling is right above him and easier to look at or because he wants to avoid the chance of meeting Sam's eyes, Sam doesn't know but can very easily guess. "Sometimes I. Sometimes I don't feel like I even know you." 

Sam resists the urge to scream. "Dude, chick-flick moment much? Since when do we do this?" 

Dean sits up, glares at Sam though the look is undermined by disoriented, watery eyes. "Since nothing else is fucking working!" Dean stands, stalks over to the desk and picks up the bottle of tequila. He throws it back, guzzles down half of what's left, hissing when he takes a breath and sets the Cuervo back on the desk. "Nothing is working, Sam, _nothing_. I don't know what to do anymore, okay? You won't fight back when I push, you only relax when you come back from being beat up by whatever demon's lurking around, you don't talk about anything and you don't make _me_ talk about anything. I just. I can't. I give up. I don't know what else to do. If you wanna leave now, fine, okay, I get it. But you gotta give me _something_ , Sam."

Eyes wide, Sam can only stare at his brother. He had no idea, absolutely none, that Dean felt like this. "Yeah," he says. Half of him wants nothing more than to tell Dean exactly what Sam wants from his older brother. He won't, though. He can't. "Okay." 

"Tell me," Dean says -- says, Sam tells himself, demanding and not begging, ordering and not pleading.

Sam clears his throat, looks at the floor, the thin carpet dotted over with stains. "There are," he starts to say. He shifts, uncomfortable, wonders how Dean can stand there and just watch. "Sometimes, man, you treat me like a leper. You aren't going to burst in to flames if you touch me, y'know." 

Dean nods once, twice, slowly. "I didn't know. I'll stop. Promise." Dean pauses and Sam looks up, fixes his eyes on the bridge of Dean's nose, freckled over and pale. "Sam, I." 

"Don't," Sam says, the word coming out a little sharper than he'd intended. Sam stands up, walks in the direction of the bathroom. On the threshold, he says, softer, "There's no need."

"We'll be fine," Dean says, quiet, as Sam's closing the bathroom door. He doesn't know if he was meant to hear that. He doesn't have it in him to disagree. 

When he's done, works up the courage to go back out into the room, Dean's in bed, sleeping. Sam stands in the middle of the room, halfway between his bed and the door, for what feels like one of Lilith's eternities. He finally crawls into bed and turns his back on the door. Caésinha taps on the window around three in the morning. Sam doesn't move. The demon eventually leaves. Sam stares at the wall and listens to his brother breathe. 

It's one of the hardest things he's done since he came back from hell. It's one of the longest nights. 

\--

Dean starts on his promise right away. The next morning, he elbows Sam as they're putting weapons in the Impala's trunk. When they get to Point Defiance Park, Dean leans over Sam's shoulder to check out a map, breathes out close to Sam's ear. It's only through strength of will that Sam doesn't shiver, doesn't lean back into the curve of his brother's body. He starts to think that maybe he should've asked for something else, that he's only asked to be driven halfway to crazy, when Dean smacks the back of Sam's head after a completely unproductive three hour walk around the park. The smack isn't so bad but after, Dean seems to miss a step. Sam pauses, looks at his brother, and Dean reaches back up, through Sam's hair, and traces his scalp. Sam's skin crawls. 

"Dean?" he asks. 

That shakes Dean out of whatever thoughts he'd been caught in. Dean shakes his head, starts walking again. He looks mildly embarrassed. Sam doesn't call him on it. 

\--

The next two weeks are spent traipsing through every single park in and around Tacoma, down past McChord to Olympia, then back up to Dash Point. They'd gotten word of a possible _akhlut_ sighting and, though most of the creatures they've looked up prefer to stay close to the water, there are a lot of parks near enough to satisfy both the wolf half of the spirit _and_ the orca half. It makes tracking difficult but Dean hears some people talking about wild wolf attacks near Lakota and as soon as they drive into Dash Point State Park, Sam's feeling something supernatural scratch at his skin. 

Dean finds the lair but decides they'll come back for the _akhlut_ tomorrow, once they've found a motel and had a chance to rest. He drives towards Federal Way and pulls into the parking lot of a small deli. They order and sit inside, next to a window. Dean kicks Sam under the table once, calls Sam 'gigantor' and makes a show of stretching his feet out into the aisle. 

Two weeks of little innocent touches means Dean's not flinching every time Sam gets too close. It means that Sam's reminded every so often of the heat Dean emits. It means that he gets goosebumps when Dean's hand or elbow or knee digs into him. It means that Sam's going to go insane, especially when he sees the girl behind the counter look over at them and make eye contact with Dean. She flicks her eyes at Sam, at the space between the two of them, comes to the conclusion that they aren't together, a conclusion no doubt helped out by the grin Dean gives her. Sam wants to grind his teeth together but tears a bite out of his sandwich instead. He's used to this. 

He finishes his sandwich first, drains the rest of his coffee, and says, "I'm gonna go check out that bookstore down the street. Take your time." Sam leaves without waiting for an answer. 

It's sunny outside, on the crisp side, the smell of water in the air. Sam crosses the street and turns left; the bookstore's a block away, tucked between a cell phone place and a Starbucks, and it looks as if it might have some older texts. The further away he gets from the deli, the slower he walks, calming down now that he doesn't have to watch Dean flirt with someone else, watch Dean get that look in his eye, the slow, lazy look of indolence, watch as the girl takes Dean to the back or to the bathroom. 

Sam's walking into the bookstore a few minutes later, tinny-sounding bell jingling when the door opens and then closes behind Sam. The place smells musty, like old books and proper glued bindings, and Sam takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly along with the tension in his shoulders. 

"Not many people ignore me, lord," the woman behind the counter says. Sam glances over, takes in the body Caésinha found: middle-aged woman, gray peppering her dark hair, black eyes, three inches of bangles, camisole under a thick cardigan, name-tag that says 'Nancy.' "They usually find it against their best interests." 

"Good thing I'm not most people," Sam snaps. Caésinha raises an eyebrow, moves from around the counter to the door, turning the sign from 'Open' to 'Closed.' "What are you doing?" 

The demon smiles. She sashays towards Sam, runs a hand down his arm. Sam doesn't move, so she stands in front of him, reaches down with one hand to cup his crotch, slides her other hand to the back of Sam's neck, pushing his face closer to hers. She licks his lips with her tongue, then kisses him hard and fast. 

Sam's been aching, kept on the edge of arousal from Dean's touch, Dean's attention, still tense from their discussion two weeks ago and waiting for it to explode at any minute. What Caésinha's doing, it isn't much but it's enough. He pushes her away only so he can grab her by one hand and pull her into the stacks, away from the door and windows. 

They don't waste time with clothes. Caésinha undoes Sam's jeans and pushes them, along with his underwear, down to his knees, while Sam's lifting up her skirt and pushing her panties to one side. He slams her against the stack of books, fucks into her with one stroke. 

The shelf shakes and Caésinha laughs, the laugh turning into a groan as Sam pulls back and then thrusts again. "You're going to break her, lord," she whispers, the words in this voice turning throaty, inviting. 

"I don't," Sam growls, setting a harsh, punishing rhythm, "fucking _care_."

"Best fuck of the poor human's life," Caésinha promises, timing her words in between thrusts. She has her hands under Sam's shirts and her nails are digging in, drawing blood. The bangles make little clanging noises, bumping up against one another. Sam wants more so he leans forward, bites her lower lip until it's split open and bleeding, then attacks her neck with his teeth, tearing and bruising the skin. Caésinha scratches her nails down his back, digging in deep and ripping the skin, blood soaking into his shirt almost immediately. 

A book falls off the shelf when Caésinha comes. A dozen more fall when Sam does, off of a different shelf half the store away. He pauses, still inside of her, and looks over at them. As he pulls out, wipes off his dick, he tightens up his barriers. 

"Any books here worth looking at?" he asks. 

Caésinha, helping him get his jeans buttoned up, shrugs. "Not much. Maybe one or two old things but they're things you learned down with the queen."

Sam nods, leaves Caésinha in the stacks, adjusting her own clothing, to turn the sign back. He gets five steps away and the bell jingles. Sam turns, sees Dean standing there, uncertain look on his face. 

"Turn back around," Dean tells him. Sam does and Dean's lifting up the shirts a split second later, fingers ghosting over the scrapes Caésinha just caused. "Dude, you were gone how long? How," he starts to say, then stops, steps back. Sam turns to see Dean lay one hand on the handle of his gun. "Where's the demon?" 

Caésinha emerges from the stacks, her eyes black and cold. "Why, the indomitable Dean Winchester," she says, moving to stand next to Sam. Her fingers brush against Sam's hip and he shivers, half from her touch, half from the compliment she just paid to his brother, even if the tone was dismissive. "What do you think you can do to me? Especially with my general standing between us, the one _you_ gave to us? No, you aren't going to do a thing except turn around and walk out of here. Whether Samuel decides to go with you or not is up to him."

Dean glares at Caésinha and then turns his eyes to Sam. "Come on," he orders, echoes of the tone he learned from their father underlying the two words. "We're leaving." 

Sam wants to roll his eyes at the grandstanding both of them are doing, at the way they're behaving. "Caésinha, calm down," he says. "I just came here to pass time while Dean was busy. Now that he's done, we can go. And Dean, I'm not leaving just because you said so. Both of you understand?" 

"Of course, general," Caésinha says immediately. She inclines her head, steps back with a flourish, clearing the way for Sam to leave. Dean doesn't move; Caésinha says, tone slick like oil and twice as deadly, "Perhaps the human has not. Should I teach him a lesson or is he too dumb to be educated?" 

"Fine," Dean bites out. "Come if you want or not. I'm leaving."

He does, walks out of the door and lets it slam closed behind him. Caésinha huffs and Sam can feel the demon rolling her eyes without needing to look. "Not a word, Caésinha," Sam says. Command thunders through the words. She's silent as Sam leaves. 

\--

Dean drives to the nearest motel and parks, gets out of the Impala before Sam can. Sam doesn't ask what's going on, not with the expression gracing Dean's face when he gets back into the car and drives down to the end of the row. As soon as the engine's off, Dean's out of the car, grabbing their duffels, and stalking inside, leaving the motel room's door open. Sam does _not_ want to go into that room but he gets out of the car, walks towards it like a man facing his execution. 

He doesn't see Dean right away, closes the door before he realises that Dean's in the bathroom rustling around for something. 

"Shirts off," Dean calls out. Sam stares in the direction of his brother's voice and is still standing there, not having moved, when Dean comes out of the bathroom carrying their first aid kit. "Now," Dean says. "Then on the bed." 

"They're just scratches," Sam says, trying to protest. 

Dean snorts. "Don't hold it against me if I don't exactly trust your judgment when it comes to injuries. Shirts off, on the bed." 

He's not going to get out of this, so Sam just sighs and takes his hoodie off, throwing it in the direction of his duffel, dropped haphazardly in front of the television. The hoodie isn't stained so it won't need to be washed. The button-up did get blood on it, so that gets thrown near the window, their traditional laundry pile location, along with the t-shirt Sam was wearing underneath it. If the blood doesn't come out, they'll at least be able to cut it up and use it for rags. 

With Dean watching, Sam crawls up onto his bed, lies down on his stomach, arms bent so his face is resting on his hands. The bed moves as Dean sits; Sam doesn't move, doesn't react. He doesn't hiss when Dean pours holy water on the scratch-marks though it hurts, stinging his skin with the initial contact, burning as it soaks in and spreads. Compared to that, the rubbing alcohol's nothing. 

"They don't look too bad," Dean says once he's washed the blood off. 

Sam bites his tongue. "Just nails," he says, tone as neutral as he can manage. "I'm sure you've had worse." 

Dean's still for a moment, then he asks, "Is that what this was all about? A co-ed smiles at me so you go and find a demon to fuck? Are you trying to prove a point here, Sam? 'Cause if you are, it's going way over my head." 

"No point," Sam says. He opens his mouth to say more but Dean runs one finger down the length of a scratch Caésinha left, nail digging in to the skin around the cut and tugging on the scabs. Sam groans, can't help it though he stops as soon as he realises what he's doing.

It's enough for Dean to hear, though, enough to have Dean audibly swallow. "Is this what they did to you?" Dean asks. His voice sounds ragged, torn. "They hurt you and then they made you like it? Did they mindfuck you until you begged for it?" 

"Dean," Sam says, closing his eyes tight. "You don't want to do this." 

"You know what, Sam?" Dean asks, tone as soft as his touch. "I think I do. I think it's past time I did this." His fingers trail a different scratch, feather-light. 

Sam shudders, most certainly does _not_ ask Dean to do it again, only harder, hard enough to leave marks of his own. His dick twitches, blood rushing through his body. "Don't. Just. Please don't." 

Dean takes a while before asking, "Why not? What the hell are you so afraid of?"

There's no way to answer that so Sam doesn't even try. He doesn't say a word, doesn't move. Dean doesn't say anything, either, but he doesn't move. Sam's strung out on the edge of screaming, just so that _something_ will happen.

Fingers graze over the scratches on Sam's back. Dean's nails are jagged and they dig in. "Did they touch you like this?" Dean asks, voice rough, catching on Sam just as his nails are. "Did they hurt you and then touch you like this? Did they make you beg for their kindness?"

Sam shakes his head but doesn't say a word. He's afraid of what might come out of his mouth, Dean's fingers passing phantom strokes over his back. He swallows, can feel the choker around his throat, not as tight as Lilith's collar but it grounds him enough to think of his queen, to think of Ruby and Vetis and his duties to hell. Dean's nowhere in those; the only thing Sam has to do in regard to his brother is keep Dean from knowing the full truth about the bargain, about Sam's place in hell's hierarchy and Dean's redemption. 

"You used to talk before," Dean says. He places the heel of his palm on the small of Sam's back, lets his fingers stretch and spread out over Sam's skin, fever-hot to the touch. 

"You always told me to shut up," Sam replies. "No chick-flick moments, remember? Now suddenly you're all about them."

Dean licks his lips; the noise echoes in the quiet as Dean closes his mouth, opens it. Dean moves, then, reaching up to run his fingers through Sam's hair. Sam shudders, much as he did one week ago. The hand rubbing circles into his scalp pauses. 

"Lilith," Sam starts to say. Dean starts to say something but Sam says, "No. You wanted to know." When it's quiet again, Sam says, "Lilith used to touch my scalp like that. No hair in the way, and usually she ended up digging her nails in to draw blood. Before that, though, it. It was," he pauses. "It was comforting, I guess. Gentle. There wasn't a lot in hell that was gentle." 

"That bitch," Dean says, in clear, measured words, "is not gentle."

Sam snorts. "No shit, Sherlock. And I never said _she_ was. Why are you doing this, Dean?" Sam shakes his head, dislodges Dean's hand. Feeling the pull of skin across his back, Sam sits up, brings one knee on to the bed and folds it, rests his hands on it, lets his other foot dangle off the side. He's not exactly sure what he's asking about, wonders how Dean will interpret the question, how he'll choose to answer. 

Dean meets his gaze head-on, holds it long enough for Sam to fight the urge to drop his eyes. Without warning, Dean leans forward, presses his lips to Sam's, pulls back after a few frozen seconds. 

"What," Sam says, fighting shock and fury both too much to find the rest of his question. 

"That's how they got to you, isn't it," Dean replies, half a statement. "You've always. You've always _felt_ things more. So they used sex. It's something you'd respond to."

Lilith said the same thing. Sam will not ever tell his brother that he's just unknowingly echoed the queen of hell's own thoughts. 

"So what are _you_ doing?" Sam asks, leaning backwards just the slightest bit, pulling himself away from his brother. He can see the moment Dean realises what Sam's doing; Dean's eyes widen, then narrow. 

"Trying to speak your language, here." Dean sounds frustrated beyond belief. "Trying to. Shit, Sam, you've been impossible since you came back. You're not acting like yourself and you won't tell me what they did to you. I have _no clue_ how to make things better. Bobby says it'll happen when it happens but he's not. Sam, it's like you've completely checked out. All these secrets, all the _demons_ , the things they call you, the things you know. Yeah, you hunt, and yeah, you do what you have to, but it's not _you_ , okay?"

Sam stares at his brother. Sure, he knows Dean's been practically pulling out his hair trying to get Sam to spill some of his secrets. He knows that there have been more calls to Bobby than just the one he overheard with Ruby. Dean would have had to be blind and idiotic as well to not pick up on the way their relationship -- working and familial both -- has twisted and broken until all that's left are pieces. He just never thought Dean would choose _this_ as a last-ditch effort to get through to him, especially after his promise to be what Sam needs, to _do_ what Sam needs. Despite all of his dreams and longing, he never, not once, thought Dean would offer himself up like this. 

Sam breaks eye contact, looks down at his hands and can really only laugh, at this point. "You know what you're doing, Dean? Hell's broken into circles, like Dante wrote. You just _kissed_ me. That's the second circle, for lust, and the seventh, for sodomy. Oh, and incest and seduction, that's the eighth circle."

"Shut. Up." Dean growls, cuts Sam off first with his words, then with his mouth. This is much more a kiss than the last one and much less. It's violent and forceful; Dean's lips and teeth practically _assault_ Sam, tearing his lips to pieces, biting his tongue, ravaging Sam's mouth. 

For his part, Sam can really only just let Dean take whatever he wants. This force, it's better than anything Ruby can do to him, better than Vetis and Caésinha combined, and it's _Dean_ , the same Dean that Sam has wanted since he admitted it to himself at the edge of sixteen, watching Dean moving through a t'ai chi form in the sunlight. He whimpers when Dean's teeth scrape already swollen, bleeding lips, folds effortlessly, bonelessly, when Dean pushes him to the bed. 

Dean pins Sam's hands above his head, holds them for a moment before telling Sam, "Keep them there." Still, as if he doesn't trust Sam to listen, Dean keeps one hand wrapped around both of Sam's wrists while the other hand curls in Sam's hair and yanks, baring Sam's neck. 

"Did they do this?" he asks, biting Sam's neck, drawing blood to the surface, leaning back, Sam thinks, to watch it well up on the surface. Dean takes the choker off with one hand and throws it over his shoulder, bites at Sam's adam's apple before moving down, using his teeth to draw blood and his lips to leave bruises in his wake. "Did they touch you like this, Sam? _Answer_ me." 

Sam can't think, can only respond to every question Dean's posing because he can only respond to the way Dean's playing his body as if they've done this many times before. "Yes," Sam breathes out, keeping his hands above his head, arching when Dean sucks one of Sam's nipples into his mouth, bites at the hard nub and draws a whine from the back of Sam's throat. "Knives," he says. "They used. Sometimes they used knives. Their nails, always hurting."

Dean looks up just long enough to say, "But you liked it. Or learnt to like it." He draws his teeth down Sam's breastbone, then one nail, digging in and tearing Sam's skin like apple blossoms. "You like this, Sam?" 

"Yeah," Sam says, eyes closing as Dean's teeth bite the tender skin of his belly. "Fuck yeah." Dean's nose is a cold point on Sam's hip as Dean gnaws on the jut of Sam's bone. "But you don't. Dean, you don't." 

"I already told you to shut up," Dean says, far too evenly for what they're doing, for what they're going to do, if the hands scrabbling to undo Sam's jeans are any indication. "Don't make me say it again, Sam. Don't talk until you're coming. Understand?" 

This is an instruction Sam understands. He had no tongue in hell; sometimes, even after all this time, he forgets that he's regained the power of speech. "Yes," he says. 

Dean gets Sam's jeans off, almost tears them off, pulls the boxer-briefs down as well. "Bet this is what that demon did," Dean says, even as he's taking off his own shirt, own jeans and underwear. "Ripped off your clothes like this, didn't waste any time getting your dick inside her. Roll over." 

Sam doesn't move right away, too out of it to follow every one of Dean's words, listening instead to the tone, to the way Dean's voice just drips sexuality. 

Dean smacks him with an open palm, right over the aching bitemark he left on Sam's hip, says it again. "Roll. Over. You don't, I'm stopping now."

Without any hesitation, Sam rolls over. He lets Dean position him, face-down on the pillow, ass in the air, hands and knees planted on the mattress. 

"You can talk to tell me if you've done this before," Dean says, spreading Sam's cheeks, spitting on Sam's hole. "And how long it's been." 

"Since Herculaneum," Sam says after a moment's thought, struggling to keep up and answer promptly when all of his attention is focused on the feel of Dean's hands on his ass, the command and want in Dean's voice. Sam's tempted to throw out a ' _Christo_ ,' suddenly worried that Lust has somehow touched Dean, knowing how much Sam wants his brother, how much Sam's been aching. Caésinha might have said something, has definitely had enough time. He doesn't want to know, though. He's a creature of hell for thinking it even if it is the truth. If this isn't Dean, Sam doesn't want to know. "And I've done this before. Since I was fourteen. He liked it when I screamed."

"No one else, Sam," Dean says. "Promise me." Sam can't. Dean sounds almost as if _he's_ the one begging when he asks again. "Please, promise me. No one else." 

Sam consciously relaxes his shoulders, takes a deep breath and feels his body protest in every place that Dean bit, sucked, bruised. "I can't. Dean, I. I can't." Not when Lilith commands his obedience, not with the way he fits with Ruby, better than anyone else, not with Vetis and Caésinha one summons away.

Dean's silent, then says, "Never in front of me. Never when we're together. Never of your own free will." He bites the fleshy part of Sam's ass, teeth leaving imprints when he's done. The mark throbs. Sam doesn't say anything to that, can't even make _that_ promise, but he hears Dean ripping open a condom packet, rolling it on his dick. "No telling what diseases you've picked up from those demons," Dean mutters.

There's no prep. Dean doesn't stretch him, doesn't use lube, doesn't do anything but line up his dick and start working it in. He doesn't go fast, though, makes every second last forever, and by the time he's inside and Sam's ass is relaxing around the intrusion, Sam realises he didn't even break the skin. Sam isn't bleeding and won't, not when Dean starts making shallow thrusts, not too hard, not yet. 

It feels good at first, gives Sam a chance to get used to the feeling even if he can't get used to the fact that it's _Dean_ fucking him. There isn't much time until Sam's wanting more, harder and faster, though. He won't talk, won't ask for it, not when Dean told him to keep his mouth closed, so he pushes back, meeting Dean thrust for thrust. Hands find their way to Sam's hips, Dean holding on tight, nails digging in and leaving crescents of blood on Sam's skin. 

"Did that bitch fuck you like this?" Dean asks once they've settled a hard, punishing rhythm. "Did she let others fuck you? What'd they use, Sam, fingers and dicks? Or did they have toys, huh? How many of them did you roll over for? While I was stuck in limbo, how many times did they do it? Did they line up to take turns or did the bitch call in her favourites and let them have a free-for-all?"

The words make Sam's head swim even as the feel of Dean moving inside him, _fucking_ him, has him clutching the sheets in his fists. Dean told him that he couldn't talk, so Sam doesn't. Instead, he lets out all of the noise he wants to make in whimpers and moans, snarls and wordless pleas for more. It's better than every fantasy he's ever had, maybe because Dean is hurting him at the same time that he's making sure Sam isn't _too_ injured. He could never have imagined this, not even with Lust on top of him, kissing him, speaking in Dean's voice. 

Almost surprised, Sam manages to whisper, "Close, I'm close, God, I'm gonna," before he comes. Every muscle pulls tight, threatening to snap with the pressure in Sam's body as he orgasms. 

Dean, inside of him, groans, leans forward to bite the closest piece of Sam's skin he can find. "I don't know," he says between pants as he keeps thrusting, "how you're still so fucking _tight_." 

Sam lays there, finds his breath, and waits, almost disappointed when Dean's rhythm stutters and then ends as Dean comes. Dean pulls out without waiting too long, discards the condom as if it's unsavoury, sits back on his heels. Sam, now belly-down on the bed, looks over his shoulder at his brother. The expression on Dean's face says it all and stabs into Sam's gut. Dean looks disgusted, with Sam and with himself, horrified, _guilty_. He looks as though he's the worst creature on the planet and he's not sure who to blame or why he should even bother.

He starts to sit up but Dean shakes his head, pushes a hand down on the back of Sam's calves. "Sleep, Sam," he says. Dean's voice catches, breaks. 

"You, too," Sam says. 

Dean climbs up the bed, stretches out. Sam rolls into the heat his brother's giving off and doesn't push the issue when Dean doesn't roll away but doesn't do anything to welcome Sam's presence. He closes his eyes, wishes Dean would show him _any_ gesture of affection. Lilith would, he knows, as would Ruby, and Vetis, and Caésinha. How ironic, he thinks, drifting off to sleep, that demons offer physical companionship. How ironic that Dean will fuck him but still considers him tainted. 

\--

It's dark when Sam wakes up, eyes adjusting to the dim light trickling in through the blinds. That means it's night, then, and he's slept the entire afternoon and evening away. Sam sits up, looks at the bathroom. No light. He listens, can't hear Dean anywhere. 

"Dean?" he calls out. There's no answer; Sam gets up, sheet wrapped around his body, and walks to the window. Parting the blinds between his fingers, he scans the parking lot. The Impala's gone. A wave of fury lashes out of him before he can stop it, fury tinged with loss and abandonment. 

Dean fucked him and then ran away. 

A knock on the door has Sam gritting his teeth. He walks over, flings open the door, and glares at the demon standing there in the body of a young man. Sam saw the man earlier, after Dean checked in and while they were driving across the lot to the room; the man was in the company of a woman and two children, probably his wife and kids. 

"Who's in the rest of the family?" he asks Caésinha. 

The demon tilts his head, eyes narrowed. "Lord, are you," he starts to say. 

Sam cuts Caésinha off, asks again, "Which of our compatriots, Caésinha, are occupying the rest of the family?" 

To Caésinha's credit, he doesn't argue, doesn't change the subject, just answers the question and keeps his eyes down, submissive in the face of Sam's anger. "Merihim is in the woman. The two children are twins. We thought they would be best possessed by Philotanus and Abdiel." 

Philotanus and Abdiel, demonic twins themselves. They came up to eat Sam's flesh together, each taking one arm between their teeth, chewing and swallowing in the same rhythm and time. Of course they'd come to earth and possess twins. The thought of them in _children_ , though, is enough to send Sam careening out of his anger and into tired resignation. Merihim, a demon bound to the service of Lust who makes her home in the second Bolgia, using flattery to spread her coils around humanity, she'll be a good watch-demon for the twins. 

"Lord," Caésinha asks, softly, "are you all right? We all felt you, whatever that was. It wasn't just me." 

Caésinha's eyes are concerned but his words are carefully chosen. Sam resists the urge to rub his eyes. If Caésinha alone felt the flood of anger, Sam would be able to push it away as a hazard of their bond, but all four of them, that's not something he can lie about. 

"Should I be worried about Vetis or Ruby showing up?" he asks, only half-joking. Even as he's asking, he's reaching across the bond he and Vetis share, pushing reassurance down the link, firmly telling Vetis to stay wherever he is. Ruby will come if she wants, he knows that. "What do you want, Caésinha?"

"Just to see that the human hasn't done anything to hurt you against your wishes," the demon answers. His eyes scan Sam's body, take careful note of the bruises and bite marks Sam isn't bothering to hide, resting on the largest scab and the lack of Sam's choker. "Where is your necklace?" 

Sam's eyes narrow and he shifts on his feet. "Go away, Caésinha." He slams the door, locks every lock on the thing, goes and takes a shower. 

Water hurts, pounding on his muscles, but it's a good, clean hurt, one that promises he'll feel better afterwards. Sam tries not to think, tries to focus on the sting of antibacterial soap. He fails miserably, caught somewhere between thoughts of what he's going to have to tell Ruby the next time she stops by and what it felt like to have Dean buried balls-deep in his ass. 

He dries off and dresses with quick efficiency, the movements those of a man who enjoys the decadence of a hot shower but knows he has to be ready for anything once he's done. With that done, he turns on the laptop, gets out his weapons to make sure they're ready for an _akhlut_ whenever Dean says it's time to go hunting. While he's watching an old episode of _LOST_ on the ABC website, he sharpens his knives, starts with his Kyocera _santoku_ , handling it with fondness. 

A knock on the door half an hour and two knives later has him unfolding long limbs and standing up from his position on the floor. He opens the door, muttering, "Thought I told you to," and stops abruptly when he sees Dean standing there holding a take-away bag of diner food and reeking of sex and perfume. 

"Gonna let me in?" Dean asks. He doesn't wait for answer, brushing past Sam without meeting his eyes. Sam doesn't move, stares out with unseeing eyes across the parking lot. 

When he finally turns, he sees Dean scratching his palms like they itch. Sam doesn't ask. Instead, with his eyes meeting Dean's, with his nose wrinkled, he picks up the choker from where Dean threw it last night and puts it around his neck, fastens the clasp. Spots of white appear high up in Dean's cheeks but he doesn't say anything. 

\--

What Dean was thinking that first time they fucked, what he thought afterwards and why he went out and promptly slept with a woman, Sam doesn't know. He doesn't want to know. He spends a great deal of time and energy purposely not thinking about it. 

They hunt the _akhlut_ and kill it even after the creature whines and shows Sam its belly, throat. Sam stands above it, staring down at it, and Dean shoots it with silver from the other direction. The _akhlut_ dies with betrayal on its face and blood pouring out of a gunshot wound straight between the eyes. Dean doesn't ask questions. 

A hunt in southern California, then Texas, then six more states; it's almost like Dean is throwing them both into their work so they don't have time to talk, much less the energy. It was like this after their father died, like this again right after Azazel died in Wyoming's old cowboy cemetery. Sam wonders what it is Dean's mourning this time but doesn't ask and, after one self-indulgent minute, doesn't allow himself to think about it either. 

Every so often, in increasing amounts, Dean fucks Sam. He never looks Sam in the eye, preferring to push Sam against a wall and kick his legs apart, or hunched over a dresser or desk or bed, feet firmly on the floor while Sam's hands grasp for purchase and his knuckles turn white, or on the bed, Sam's face pressed into the mattress or pillow, ass in the air. 

Dean's always rough and never holds anything back; Sam both appreciates and hates it. He hasn't been craving pain so much, hasn't been seeking out Caésinha as often, but even Lilith was gentle with him sometimes and Sam wonders if Dean's doing this simply out of some sort of obligation, thinks it's the only way to repay Sam for whatever he thinks Sam did and the only way to keep Sam around. 

For his part, Sam never asks for more. This is already beyond what he'd always expected from Dean, is better, in some sense, than what he'd always wanted. He never asks about the other women Dean goes out and fucks but Dean starts doing that less and less, starts leaving his marks on Sam more and more. He always takes the choker off of Sam's neck when they fuck and Sam always puts it back on the next day. Once, it covers up a rip in the side of his throat, remnants of Dean's teeth biting in to the skin and dragging down, pulling. It covers up handprints when Dean gets his fingers pressed into Sam's flesh, strangling Sam almost to the point of unconsciousness. It covers up everything and nothing, a sign that while Dean's mark is on Sam's body, the demons' claim goes much, much deeper. 

Sam never realises how much that truly disturbs Dean until one night outside of Pittsburgh. They've tracked down an _enenra_ \-- something incredibly difficult considering that neither of them are exactly pure anymore -- and killed it, using a combination of the morning's first dew drops and the steam of holy water, very tricky. As a method of congratulations for a job well done by both, Dean decides they're going to go out, get drunk, and not take another job for at least two weeks. Sam doesn't feel like arguing so he shrugs and follows Dean out of the Impala and into a bar. 

They get some food, have a few shots and beers, and then Dean says he's bored, that he's going to go play some pool and see if he can't hustle up some money. Sam moves to the bar, engages the grizzled old man behind the counter in light conversation for an hour, then turns around. He leans his back against the bar, watches Dean play pool and watch him. 

A girl comes up to the bar a few minutes later, hips swaying, tits bouncing, jeans tight and shirt even tighter. She gives Sam a once-over, starts at his feet and works up, scooches in next to him and presses the side of her body to his. When she gets her drink she turns, leans like Sam and ends up half on him. Dean misses his shot. 

"I would waste time with small talk and pick-up lines," she murmurs. Her voice rasps like Janis Joplin's. "But I don't think you're the kind of man that'd appreciate it. So. Wanna fuck?" Sam chokes on his drink. By the time he's recovered, Dean's standing in front of him, one hand grasping one of Sam's wrists, tight and painful. "A package deal?" she asks, before giving Dean the same look she'd given Sam. "All right. Sounds good to me." 

"I don't know who you think you are, sweetheart," Dean begins, low and tightly restrained, bordering on feral, "but he's mine and I don't share." 

She smiles, bright and easy, shrugs one shoulder. "Can I watch?"

Sam opens his mouth to say no, to warn her that she needs to back the fuck off, but Dean beats him to it. With a smile on his face that would rival even Sycorax's, Dean says, "Sure." Sam stares at his brother, stunned. Dean looks at him, pure wrath in his eyes, and says, "Well? Let's give the lady a show."

Without letting go of Sam's wrist, Dean turns for the door and starts walking, tugging Sam behind him. Sam stumbles, off-guard, shocked at Dean's response, and looks back at the woman. She winks at him with black eyes and follows in their wake.

He's going to kill Caésinha. 

They go outside. Dean pushes Sam against the Impala, growls, "Don't move your fucking hands," and pulls Sam's jeans and boxer-briefs down to his ankles. Sam opens his mouth but Dean moves fast, yanking Sam's head around and covering Sam's lips with his own, shoving his tongue inside of Sam's mouth. When Dean moves back enough to pull down his zipper, Sam can see the woman's eyes, the demon's eyes, watching them from the other side of the car. 

Caésinha watches while Dean fucks him hard and rough, skin sticking to the Impala. "Is that what you wanted?" Dean asks, voice as hard as Dean's dick, as unrelenting. "To be on display like this? To have everyone know that you're a slut? That you're mine? Is it?"

Sam throws his head back, comes so violently he almost sees stars. "Yes," he whispers. "Yes." 

Dean pauses, behind him. Sam's sure that his brothers eyes just widened to twice their normal size, if the hesitation and the slackening of Dean's grip on Sam's hips is any indication. When Dean comes, grunting, his palms turn slick against Sam's skin. 

Breath already slowing down back to normal, Sam looks up and doesn't see Caésinha anywhere. The woman is lying on the ground. She's probably dead. He turns, then, lifts one of Dean's hands, and blinks. The surface of Dean's palm is covered with blood, blood that isn't Sam's. "What the hell?" he asks, checking the other palm and finding the same thing. 

"Stop, stop moving for a second, damn it," Dean tells him pulling out and tucking his dick back in his underwear, zipping up his jeans. 

Sam grimaces at the feeling of come leaking out of his ass but until he can go back to their motel and shower, it's staying there. Without a second thought, he pulls up his jeans and makes himself as presentable as he can be with blood staining his hips and the clothes touching the skin. 

"Show me," he says, turning to face Dean, holding out his hands. Dean looks at him for a moment, then offers his hands to Sam, palms up. Sam leans down, breathes in the smell of blood, then licks it away. Dean starts to jerk back once but stops himself, muscles going tense under Sam's touch. 

With the blood gone, Sam presses at the centre of Dean's palms, asks, "Does that hurt?" 

"Little," Dean says, short and snappish, right to the point. "Should it?" 

Sam looks up at his brother and says, "No. And before you ask, no, I don't have any idea what's going on." That's the instant that Dean shifts on his feet. The parking lot's lights hit Dean's face differently, bouncing off of hair and the curve of Dean's skull in a different pattern. Sam sees blood dotting Dean's hairline. He reaches up, tries not to let the hurt show when Dean flinches, touches the wounds himself. Dean hisses and Sam swipes the blood away, sniffs and then tastes it. 

Dean frowns, pokes at his forehead. "You're _sure_ ," he asks, watching Sam carefully.

He's watching to see if Sam lies, Sam knows that. Dean hasn't realised yet that Sam is the son of the king of lies, the heir to queen of darkness and half-truths, a demon himself. Demons lie. 

Sam has the beginning of an idea of what this might mean, why it's been such an important relationship in hell's mind. Lilith harped on Dean, Sycorax tried but failed to separate Sam from the idea of his brother, and Ruby's taken a shine to Dean, however much Dean pisses her off. 

"No idea what's going on," Sam says, nodding. "I'll find out, though." 

Dean eyes him, nods. "You reek," he finally says. 

Sam accepts that for the peace offering it's meant to be and shrugs. "Guess I'll take a shower when we get back to the room." 

\--

The only person who Sam's sure has an answer is Lilith. Ruby might but he doesn't want to ask in case she doesn't; he'd rather not subject Dean to the names Ruby'd call him if this gets around too fast. The only problem with needing to speak with Lilith is that she's in hell and Sam's most decidedly not. He could rip a hole and travel to hell, would survive, but he'd rather not leave Dean alone in this dimension, just as he'd rather not summon Lilith out of hell and up to earth. 

There are a few other ways to speak with someone in hell but most of them make Sam's lip curl in revulsion. He's not into infant sacrifice and he doesn't want to send a demon back to use them as a bridge -- he's heard that's quite painful. Discarding almost everything else, Sam summons Caésinha and says, "When Jezebeth was up here, she had a goblet she used to communicate with Azazel." 

Caésinha raises one eyebrow. "I recall, my lord." 

Sam says, "Find it. I want it in my hands by Friday. Failure is not an option, Caésinha."

"I understand," she says, inclining her head before leaving. 

Saturday is a new moon. The ritual to turn the goblet into a device capable of communication with Lilith requires a new moon, a circle, two mirrors, and three black candles, not to mention a piece of a demon and human blood. It isn't complicated and Sam won't need to buy anything special but he'd rather get the ritual done and get an answer from Lilith now. Waiting an extra month, time during which Dean might get the idea to call Bobby or any number of other people who would understand what this all means, that'd be pushing Sam's luck. 

\--

Caésinha gets the goblet and brings it to Sam two days later, on Thursday. The demon looks pleased with herself, the host woman's lips curved up and self-satisfied. Sam dismisses Caésinha and the demon's smile falters, drops. She doesn't argue, though, just nods and leaves. 

On Saturday, once Dean's asleep courtesy of a couple sleeping pills dissolved into a bottle of beer, Sam slips out and down the street to the motel that Caésinha is staying out. He kicks the demon out of the room, locks the door, and performs the ritual. One cracked mirror, a piece of Sam's demonic heritage ripped out, and what feels like three pints of blood later, the goblet's surface has smoothed over and is ready to be re-runed. 

Sam places the goblet on the second mirror, a circle of glass, and sets the candles to form a triangle around it. Using his nails, Sam draws in the new runes, cements them with a twining line made up of Lilith's sigil on repeat around the base. The second he sets the last rune, the mirror under the goblet cracks directly in half and all three candles' flames sputter and go out, leaving Sam in the dark. For one brief minute, Sam is surrounded by the sense and scent of Lilith, everything that makes her _Lilith_ and not any other demon: her love, her cruelty, her necessity. He aches for her, longs for her, and when the amulet on his neck that represents her heats up, he shudders, almost comes. 

' _Samuel, my little general_ ,' he hears, before her presence disappears and the motel room is nothing but a motel room, save the lingering feel of something _other_. 

He stands up, picks up the goblet carefully. It burns the pads of his fingertips but Sam doesn't care, just takes off his hoodie and wraps the goblet up. He won't be able to use it for another two weeks, until the runes settle. Just holding it centers him, though, the knowledge that he'll be able to contact Lilith after a fortnight comforting him more than anything else can at the moment. 

Caésinha's sitting on the curb outside, cigarette held between long, thin fingers. The demon looks up when Sam steps out, stands next to her, and burns the cigarette's cinders out on Sam's foot. He doesn't flinch. 

"Going so soon?" Caésinha asks. "I should feel slighted, I think." 

"Dean will miss me if I'm gone much longer," Sam replies. 

The demon hums, then asks, "And is the human serving well, my lord? Or is he making you serve him? Our queen would take umbrage with that, don't forget." 

"Watch your mouth," Sam snaps. "And don't forget your place. I know full well what Lilith expects from me and I intend to follow through." 

Caésinha flows to her feet, presses close to Sam and undulates against him. She stands on her tiptoes, whispers into Sam's ear. "There are many who question your timeline, my lord. They murmur in the night and the murmurs are becoming louder and louder with every passing day. There is watching one's step and then there is postponing the inevitable. The difference between the two might be a thin line but you're on it. One misstep and your previous commandments, along with your allies' words, would perchance not be enough to satisfy our comrades." 

Sam wraps his free arm around Caésinha's waist, keeps her close as he says, " _Your_ comrades, Caésinha. I am their prince and their general. I might serve as their whipping boy but I do not _serve_ them. I trust you'll remind them of that distinction?" She nods and Sam adds, "While you're at it, remind them that I'm the only one that passes for true human in our family. _I_ know what our timeline is and should be. If any of them have problems with my judgment, I expect _you_ to take care of them. Understand?" 

He lets Caésinha go and she steps back with a smile on her face, lips pressed tight together not, Sam thinks, out of displeasure but rather to hold her bloodthirsty grin from sight. "My pleasure," she purrs. She pauses and when Sam doesn't immediately leave, asks, "May I also be your pleasure tonight?" 

"I'm going back," Sam says, rolling his eyes and smiling fondly at her antics. "Perhaps another time. But thank you for the report. I'll keep it in mind." 

He can feel her eyes on him as he leaves. The walk to the motel he and Dean are staying at doesn't take long; Sam shoves the goblet, still wrapped up in his hoodie, into his laundry duffel in the trunk of the Impala before he goes back inside. Dean's half-awake, propped up and facing the television. Sam knows he isn't watching it because there's a Time Life infomercial on hosted by Kevin Cronin and Dean hates power ballads.

"Dean," he says, gently so as not to startle Dean out of the doze he's in. There's no response, not right away, so Sam kicks off his sneakers and goes to sit on his bed. 

"You didn't change," Dean says, yawning as he sits up and rubs his eyes. "Didn't go too far?" 

Sam snorts. "Just for a walk." 

Dean gets out of bed, ankles cracking and one knee popping, and crosses the small distance between the beds to peer at Sam with drug-blurred eyes. He looks Sam over, probably searching for bruises or cuts. "No demons?" 

"No demons," Sam echoes in answer. "Go back to sleep." 

"Yeah," Dean mutters. He sits next to Sam, elbows Sam in the arm. "Scoot over." 

Bemused, guilty, Sam does as directed. When he lays down, Dean does as well, throws an arm over Sam. Sam's afraid to move, afraid that anything he'll do will remind Dean that they don't do this, that any contact outside of patching up injuries is harsh and punishing. This gentleness, Sam's not sure what to do with it. He falls asleep, barely breathing, convinced that he'll wake up and find out he's been dreaming.


	10. Chapter 10

Sunrise comes and, with it, the realisation that _Dean's_ the one wrapped tight around him, better than a blanket, morning erection poking into Sam's body. He smiles, lets out a breath that he thinks he's been holding since the first time Dean kissed him, and falls back asleep. 

He wakes up a few hours later, body loose and lax with a full night's sleep. Dean's awake, propped up on one elbow and looking down at him. Sam gives his brother a sleepy smile, then yawns. Dean's nose wrinkles. 

"You have the worst morning breath of anyone I've ever met," Dean says. "I've been an ass."

Sam struggles to keep up with the change in subject. His mind is still fogged by sleep, the most he's gotten in one night since he came back from hell. By the time he thinks he's ready to respond, Dean's halfway done with his shower. 

\--

Two weeks come and go. The goblet's ready to use but Sam never finds time to escape from under Dean's watch. The random bleeding hasn't happened again, though, so the need to contact Lilith has turned into nothing more than an aching desire Sam can't shake no matter what he thinks of. Sam's not sure why the bleeding has stopped but as two weeks folds into three, he doesn't really care. He wants Lilith but Dean's touching him more. Touching him even though they haven't fucked since that night outside the bar. 

Sam's not exactly a slut but he possesses a profound reverence for touch and has always found the most intense pleasure in touch during sex. It's the one time that physical intimacy is accepted and acceptable, the one time that he's always felt like someone can _feel_ him, knows that he's right _there_. He's always assumed this longing grew from a lack of affectionate physical exposure as a young child and a father that seemed to disdain it by the time Sam began training to hunt. Dean, as well, started pulling away, started growing up and out of sleeping curled up with Sam, just when Sam needed the physical reassurance the most. Sam turned to sex instead and gained the reputation for an easy -- if enthusiastic -- lay at several different schools, always coming close to the touch he needed but never quite there.

Since his second stay in hell, Sam's often wondered if it has more to do with his demonic ancestry, thinks about the words Lilith said, about how he feels more and more deeply. The reverence was twisted in hell, moving from worship to blasphemy, but was still full of meaning, still _is_. Lilith called it carnality but here, now, all Sam thinks is that he'd kill for Dean to touch his shoulder just once, squeeze lightly when Sam picks himself up after a hunt, one pat after being bandaged up, even a noogie or a towel-whip. Sex is all well and good but Sam just wants a _touch_ and Dean doesn't seem inclined to give it to him. 

It isn't the avoidance Sam suffered through before; Dean isn't going out of his way to keep Sam's skin from touching his own. If it happens accidentally, Dean doesn't seem to care. Dean just isn't making any effort to reach out. 

No, Sam thinks, watching his brother work under the Impala's hood on a dusty road in the middle of Nowhere, Indiana. It isn't that Dean's not making effort, it's that he's making an effort to stop _himself_. This has nothing to do with Sam at all except that Sam's the only one Dean's stopping himself from touching. 

He watches closely after that discovery and sees, that night, when Dean starts to shift. Sam knows where this is going: Dean will resettle and then, when Sam's not paying attention, kick the bottom of Sam's foot just when he's taking a sip of coffee. It's something Dean's done a million times and usually ends up with coffee either up Sam's nose or down the front of his shirt. This time, it doesn't happen. Dean starts to lift his foot but then pauses, lets it drop back down, almost as if he's steeling himself, reminding himself of something. 

Sam doesn't say anything about it. He longs for the feel of someone's skin against his but refuses to seek out Caésinha. 

\--

Three weeks become four, then five, then six. Dean's not touching him and Dean isn't bleeding him, either. Sam hasn't tried calling Lilith because he doesn't care. He's going crazy again, this time not only from lack of pain but from lack of touch as well; he's still getting hurt on a regular basis but Dean isn't causing it and accidental injury just isn't really the same. Dean's being distantly solicitous, almost too much, and the only reason Sam can come up with is that Dean feels guilty for something. What that is, Sam doesn't know. He can't find a way to ask and so he doesn't. 

He wonders if Dean's called Bobby, done some research, already has an idea of what's going on. Every time Dean takes a shower, Sam checks his brother's phone for calls made or received. Nothing's there that might say Dean's been seeking answers from other people, just like there's no hint of research in the computer's history or memory, no extra miles on the Impala. Sam's getting paranoid, suspicious, like the person who has an affair and then suspects their partner of doing the same thing. Dean isn't, so either Dean has a hunch or he trusts Sam. 

Both of those options make Sam's stomach bottom out into churning.

He needs something, anything, and he doesn't want to go as crazy as he did in Boise, so seven weeks and a handful of hunts out from the re-runing of the goblet, Sam ditches Dean at a bar and makes his way to the nearest congregation of demons. Dean doesn't follow him but Sam's sure that his brother thought twice about it. 

Sam knocks on a door a few miles away from both the bar they were at and the motel they're currently holed up in, looks around while he waits for answer. A demon opens the door, stares at him, then seems to remember herself; she opens the door wide and narrowly stops from dropping to one knee in acknowledgement. 

"Prince, you do us a great honour," she starts to say. 

Sam cuts her off as gently as he can. "I would like to visit with everyone here but there's something I need to do first. Is there a room where I can be left alone?" She nods and Sam warns, "There may be others arriving. Please make sure to let them in." 

"Of course," the demon replies, eyes wide. "An honour to assist." She leads Sam up a flight of stairs and to a room which appears to be some sort of study. One wall has built-in bookshelves, floor to ceiling, filled with all shapes and sizes of books and knick-knacks. A desk sits facing a window and there are two high-backed blue armchairs opposite the wall of shelves, no television or radio or computer as far as Sam can see. "Will this be all right?" the demon asks. 

"Perfect," Sam says, ushering her out as kindly but quickly as he can. Once he's alone, Sam takes a piece of chalk out of his pocket and draws a triangle on the floor, sketches a circle inside of the triangle and glyphs in each corner. He doesn't even need this, not being hell's prince, but Ruby is the princess and he owes her a little respect, a little leeway to not answer if she doesn't feel like it. The ritual will tug at her but she's strong enough to resist, especially as he isn't using candles or sulfur. Whether she'll come or not, he'll leave the decision to her. 

Sam stands up, leaves the summoning triangle alone, and goes to study the books. He pulls out an old copy -- perhaps even an original -- of the _De Occulta Philosophia_ and sits down at the desk, starts paging through the book. Sam gets through all of Book One and the first two parts of Book Two before he hears footsteps outside and feels the presence of Ruby reaching out to him. He sets the book down and stands up. When she opens the door, he's facing her. 

"Shit, you look like hell," she says, before turning to the demon who escorted Sam up and saying, "Fuck off, little imp," and slamming the door in the demon's face. 

"Ruby," Sam chides, trying and failing to hide a smile when she looks at him, exasperation written all over her face. 

She scowls, says, "It's _true_ , Sam. You haven't looked this bad since St. Louis." 

Sam shrugs, looks down at the sigil. "You haven't seen me since St. Louis. How would you know?" 

"Touché," Ruby says with a sigh. She strides across the room, falls backwards into one of the chairs, crossing one leg, ankle at knee. She looks at the symbol on the floor, doesn't look at Sam when she asks, "But tell me what's going on, Sam. I thought you and Dean were getting better. Caésinha told me that he was finally fucking you. From the way you look now, I'm going to pull that bitch apart for lying to me." 

"Caésinha wasn't lying," Sam says, crossing the room and sitting in the other chair, body angled towards Ruby. "But the information's outdated. It's been seven weeks." 

Ruby's head whips to face Sam. Her cheeks are drained of colour. "Seven weeks? Fuck, Sam, it's been _seven weeks_ since you've had sex? That's just with Dean, though, right?" She frowns, adds quietly, "You must've had more contact with Caésinha or some of the others than he let on."

Sam tilts his head, raises one eyebrow in question. "I haven't slept with anyone since Dean," he says. Ruby grows paler. Sam frowns, says leadingly, "I hadn't realised it was that important."

She snorts, looks back at the symbol. Even so, Sam can see that she's upset. He can _feel_ that she's been shaken. "It shouldn't be possible for you to be so sane," she says quietly. "You were a mess after Miami and then again in St. Louis. What's different this time?" 

"If I knew why I was supposed to be going crazy," Sam says, "I might be able to answer that." 

Ruby swallows, grimaces. "Sex is power," she says. "As a human, you're a sexual being. You express your strongest and most powerful desires through sex. There's a reason Keats wrote _Lamia_ the way he did, y'know." 

A shock of recognition hits Sam. "Of course," he murmurs. "What'd they say in that translation of _Faust_ , that the Vulgate translates Lilith to Lamia?" It makes a ridiculous amount of sense. Sex and power, two things that have been entwined since Eden. Ruby has more to say, though, so he shakes his head once, focuses on her again.

"For demons on earth," she goes on, "sex centres us, grounds us. _All_ demons, Sam. It reminds us that we possess a physical body that won't change at our whims. The sexual act is when we connect to our host at the most symbiotic level; as the heartbeat and blood flow increases, we can spread our power through their body and gather our gifts and talents into a usable form. Haven't you ever wondered why so many of us fuck each other, fuck humans, run businesses that corrupt or spend time corrupting humans into having sex? Fuck's sake, Sam, that's why mother turned her back on God to begin with, why Lucifer fell and how Eve lost her original innocence. Being so high in our family, it means you need it all the more. Did you just think it was coincidence that mother and Sycorax used sex to bend you or that Lust was so captivated by you?"

Sam blinks. He's sure he should've known all of this already. He should have been able to put it together himself. "Seven weeks is a long time for someone like me, I take it," he says, half joking. 

Ruby isn't amused. "I'm your equal on almost every level," she says, "except that I don't have the added layer of humanity which should give me an edge and make it even _worse_ for you. I can't go three _days_ , Sam." That comes as a shock, a shock that must be written all over his face. "What about pain?" she asks. "Caésinha didn't say anything about you going to him for that." 

"The need's been getting worse but I haven't resorted to cutting myself again," Sam replies slowly. He thinks of Dean's hands on him, thinks of the loss he felt when he realised Dean was stopping himself from acting. "I noticed that, though. I was worse before. This time I summoned you before it could go too far." 

"What changed?" Ruby asks. "If he was giving you what you needed, why did he stop?" 

Sam lets out one bark of laughter. "If I understood the way Dean's mind works, I'd be someone else. I have no idea why he stopped. I don't know why he started to begin with." 

Ruby nods once, slowly, then stands up. "Best take care of things first, then," she says, stepping towards Sam as she slips off her leather jacket. She straddles him, runs her nails down one side of his face. "Should we go downstairs and let them whip you? I'd almost like to see that, Sam, but I'm the only one who gets your dick tonight." She sucks his earlobe into her mouth, bites down hard and then lets it go, licks a trail down to his choker. "Actually, no," she murmurs, teeth seeking out the exact same place on Sam's neck that Dean ripped open months ago. "I want you all to myself. They can watch but I'll be the only one touching you tonight." 

She leans back enough so that Sam can meet her eyes. "I don't want an audience," he says, lifting one hand to cup her cheek. "Just you."

"Good," she says with a smile. Her teeth gleam as the lamps flicker and then turn dark. She stands, illuminated by light streaming in through the window, and shimmies out of her jeans. "Stand up, Sam. We have _lots_ to catch up on."

\--

Once they're lying on top of the summoning triangle, panting, and Ruby's sigil has burned its way on to Sam's throat, she curls into him, carelessly draws circles on her chest with one fingertip. Sam pulls her closer, wraps an arm around her body and hums in lazy pleasure. 

"Why does everyone care so much if Dean's the one fucking me?" Sam asks, careful even in his sleepy satiation. He's thankful for the deception when Ruby freezes, for one nearly imperceptible moment, in his arms. "Ruby."

She sighs, burrows in deeper. "Do we really have to talk about your brother?"

Sam brushes hair away from her face and says, "I'm going to ask your mother if you don't want to." Ruby looks up at him, scowling, and Sam says, "I've tuned Barbatos' Goblet to Lilith. It's ready to use now." 

"You'd really go to mother about this?" Ruby asks. Sam nods and she sits up, draws her knees to her chest and tightens her arms around them. "Fine, then. Ask her. I don't care if Dean's the last person on earth who'd touch you, so long as you don't ignore _me_." 

Somehow, Sam doesn't exactly believe that.

\--

"Who was it?" Dean asks, as soon as Sam opens the door. Dean's still dressed, hasn't even taken off his jacket or boots yet, and is sitting on the edge of the bed closest to the door. 

Sam steps inside, gets hit by the tangy smell of Jack Daniels without any Coke to dilute it. He shuts the door, tosses his hoodie on the small table in the corner, covering a stack of newspapers and their research. "Ruby," he says. There's no reason to lie; Dean knows he was out with a demon and he'll see the marks before too long. "She says hello, by the way." 

Dean snorts but doesn't say anything right away, seems content to let his gaze follow Sam as Sam walks around the room, gathering up his pyjamas, setting his shoes under the table, swallowing down a couple aspirin. "She hurt you?"

"Only as much as I asked for," Sam replies. With the subject breached, he takes off his shirt. His muscles protest as a wave of pain sweeps from his neck to his feet. "And I gave as good as I got, don't worry." 

There isn't a hiss or a groan or any outraged comment when Sam turns to head for the bathroom, giving Dean a clear view of his back. Ruby'd used her teeth, her nails, like normal, but she also had Sam's hunting knife, the one he always keeps with him the way Dean always keeps a gun with him. She carved clean lines and didn't shape them into any particular pattern. She kept away from anything that might hinder his movement and didn't make the slices any deeper than a bad papercut. It's better than he's come back with before. 

Sam washes his face, blinks away water droplets that cling stubbornly to his eyelashes. When his vision clears, he sees Dean's reflection in the mirror, holding out a towel. Sam takes it with muttered thanks, dries his face. 

"Why did you go talk to her?" Dean asks. He's standing in the middle of the doorway, leaving Sam no room to run away and no room to maneuver. 

Sam understands the move for what it really is and gives his brother a wry smile of acknowledgment. He puts down the toilet lid and sits down, hunches over so that the ache in his back keeps spreading through his body like ripples on the surface of water. 

"She's not as bad as you think she is," Sam replies. 

Dean crosses his arms on his chest. "That's not an answer, Sam, and you know it." 

Sam shrugs. "It's probably something you need to know more than the answer," he says. "You should get used to the idea that she'll be around for a long time."

"Demons belong in hell," Dean snaps. "I don't have to get used to her and neither do you. One simple exorcism and she's gone." 

Words fight to the tip of Sam's tongue but he bites them all back. If demons belong in hell, then so does Sam. He has enough of a demonic nature to qualify; he can do things that no human can. "Everything and everyone has a place, huh," he mutters, looking at his hands. He glances up from under his eyelashes, see Dean frowning, not following Sam's train of thought and disturbed because of it.

"Yeah," Dean says. He sounds as if he's spoiling for a fight. 

"Then what about the dead?" Sam tilts his head up, watches that one hit Dean square in the face. 

Dean flinches, face draining of colour. If demons belong in hell then what's dead should stay dead. Dean's said it enough, all those times after their father died, said it and hated the circumstances that forced him to think it. Maybe Dean hasn't thought, but if the dead should stay that way, then Sam should never have been given the chance to become Lilith's prince. He should've remained in hell, been found and tormented and turned into Azazel's prince right then and there with no hope of remaining human. 

Sam watches his brother carefully and keeps a tight lid on his gifts. He wants to ask about Dean's vaunted morals, all of that existential angst Dean put himself through, and why Sam shouldn't feel the same way, being brought back thanks to a deal. He doesn't. With the point made, Sam shifts, leans backwards and picks at the skin around his thumbnail. 

"I'm just saying," he begins, "that Ruby will be around. A lot. As will one or two other demons that prefer to jump hosts. So you might want to get used to it or find a reason to leave when they stop by. Or," he says, categorically _not_ watching Dean for a reaction, "I could leave. You wouldn't have to worry about any demons then, definitely not Ruby, and if anyone asks, you'd be able to swear you don't know a thing." 

He expects one of two things: either Dean will yell and tell Sam to get out or tell Sam he's not leaving, or Dean won't say a word except to say that Sam can do whatever he damn well wants to. If Sam had to pick, he'd take his time deciding; Dean's been awfully unpredictable lately. 

"I sold my soul for you," Dean says. That wasn't on Sam's radar at all. He stares at Dean, eyes wide. "And you bought it back. I figure we're pretty much a set at this point. I don't like her and I don't think I ever will but if you promise she's not going to kill, maim, or otherwise piss me off, then fine. I'll get used to it. _You_ just have to make sure Dad never finds out and comes back to haunt my ass for agreeing to this." 

"Deal," Sam says. 

\--

Dean falls asleep a few hours later. Sam's awake, eyes unfocused and gaze drifting in the dark. He loosens the hold on his outermost barrier, the one that keeps him from sensing other demons, and drifts outwards. Caésinha's not too far away, like normal, and Ruby isn't either, though she's in the opposite direction and heading further away, slow enough that she might be walking. Sam plucks on the thread that connects him to Vetis and feels an answering hum come from a good distance away, maybe half the country. After a moment's hesitation, he searches for Sonneillon, Agares, feels them together and assumes they're in Miami. 

The mere presence of other demons calms Sam as if reassuring him that he isn't alone. He doesn't need that reminder, not this soon after Ruby, not after Dean's promised to try and deal with everything, but it feels good. It feels like home, in a sense. 

Sam drifts off into a light doze as his mind spreads thin and wide, that barrier stretching further, until something pings against it and wakes him up. It doesn't feel demonic, doesn't feel like the horsemen; it reeks of humanity and yet there's something almost kindred in the feeling as well. Sam narrows in on the source of the feeling and recoils, barriers snapping back to full strength. All of Azazel's psychics are dead but there are more out there. Psychics, the people who have bargained with demons, those who carry some trace of demonic ancestry within them, Sam can feel them, too, all of them. 

He takes a deep breath. He could. Sam stops, stares into the darkness. Just from that one touch, he knows he's changed, that something about him is different than it was even a week ago. From that one touch, Sam understands enough to know that he could gather those psychics to his side, deepen their gifts or cut them away, give them other powers or give them a narrow focus. He understands what Ruby was doing all those months ago, sending Bela to him; he can make bargains of his own now or change the ones already struck. If he wanted, he could find everyone who ever had a demon for an ancestor and awaken that part of them. 

Sam's the prince of hell and Lilith has done something. She's unlocked something inside of him to be able to work on earth, that or given him the power to back up his abilities, _something_. This much power, it's _too_ much, and if Sam was nothing but a human, it would drive him crazy. It's coming close now, this sense of nothing being out of his reach, of being able to do whatever it wants, and Sam's almost surprised to realise he's hyperventilating, but then Dean breathes. Dean breathes and rolls over, muttering something under his breath as one hand slides under the pillow, reaching for the comfort of a knife even in sleep. Dean is here and Sam has too much to lose, even now, to let everything go. 

His barriers are up. He's all right. He has the goblet. He'll use it. He'll call Lilith, talk to her, ask her about Dean, ask her about this new manifestation of his power. She'll have answers. She'll be there. He's all right. He'll be fine.

\--

Sam gets his chance two days later. Caésinha knocks on the door while Sam's intent on debugging the laptop. Dean opens the door with a muttered curse, one that drops off, presumably when he sees Caésinha's black eyes and mocking smile. 

"Sam?" Dean calls out; Sam looks up and sees that Dean hasn't taken his eyes off of the demon. "I think it's for you." 

Dean's being cautious but hasn't slammed the door or started reciting an exorcism; Sam thanks every deity for small mercies and stands up. "Caésinha," he says, crossing the room and standing next to Dean. "What's going on?" 

Caésinha's grin loses its caustic edge and turns soft around the edges when he looks at Sam. "General, the queen has requested an audience at your earliest convenience." 

Sam's eyes narrow. Caésinha's lying because Lilith would never _request_ his presence, definitely not at _his_ convenience. Why Caésinha's lying, Sam doesn't know, but he can guess and wants to thank the canny demon for giving him a way out of this. "And just why are you playing messenger?"

"She _is_ the queen," Caésinha replies. The gleam in the demon's eyes would be disconcerting if they weren't balanced out by the worry Sam sees when he looks at his brother. "Though I would recommend you speak with her sooner, rather than later." 

A flush of anger courses through Sam's body. Granted, this entire thing is a sham to get Sam away from Dean and able to use the goblet, but Caésinha has no right to tell Sam what to do, even when couched as a recommendation. "You forget your place," Sam hisses, letting a crack appear in his barriers. It isn't a large crack, just big enough to show Caésinha that Sam isn't joking. 

The demons swallows, drops its head and stares at the ground. "Forgive me, general." The demon might be one of Pride's but he's learned his place, at least. 

Mollified, Sam repairs his barriers and turns to Dean. "It's not good to keep her waiting," he says. He fingers his necklace, adds, "And this means I can't. I'll be back soon." 

"I'll come with you," Dean says, instantly. 

"No." Sam doesn't even have to think about it. "Not Lilith, not yet. I'll be fine, don't worry." With Caésinha watching them both, Sam takes a calculated risk and darts forward to place a soft kiss at the corner of Dean's mouth. Dean's been avoiding contact and they've never talked about the sex they had or why they stopped; doing this could backfire spectacularly. 

Either Dean's self-control is starting to wear thin or he doesn't mind playing their relationship up in front of a demon, because Dean reaches out, settles his hand on the back of Sam's neck, and yanks Sam closer. "Don't be gone long or I'll come looking," Dean warns, then kisses Sam, hard like it was at the beginning but without the brutality, forceful but not violent. This isn't punishment, not with the way Dean's tongue is stroking Sam's, but it is a reminder that Dean's capable of greater depths of pain, capable and now all too willing. 

Sam finally breaks the kiss off when he's forgotten how to breathe and bumps his forehead against Dean's. "When I get back," he says. 

Dean gets it, because he nods, lets go of Sam and takes a step back. "As much as I hate the idea."

Caésinha appears fascinated when Sam glances at him, drops that expression and schools his face into something more appropriate once he notices Sam's scowl. "After you, general," he says, moving out of Sam's way. 

Sam stalks outside and takes a sharp right, heading down the row of rooms. He gets to the end before he hears Dean close the door to their room and Sam stops abruptly. "The goblet is in the car, Caésinha. If I know Dean, he'll be watching out the window. I need someone to cloud the glass so I can get into the Impala. Can you do that or do I need to summon someone else?" 

"Consider it done," Caésinha replies. In the next instant, the demon turns back in the direction of Sam's room and breathes out something that ripples like plastic-wrap in the air. Sam traces the edges of the ripples, watches as they move and glue to the front of the room he and Dean are in, plus the rooms on either side. "How long should I leave it on?" 

Already halfway to the Impala, Sam says, "Just until we get out of here. Where are you staying?" 

"A house across the street and down a little," Caésinha answers. "The man lives alone; that's who I possessed." 

Sam nods absently, reaching in to the trunk, pulling his hoodie -- and the goblet wrapped within it -- out of his laundry duffel. "Let's go." 

Sam can feel the effects of whatever Caésinha did fall away. He's on the other side of the street and two blocks down. He still has his barriers up. 

\--

"The goblet," Caésinha asks, showing Sam the house's half-finished basement, a pentacle already inscribed inside of a circle etched on the cement. Sam eyes the summoning runes, sees that the circle's done except for the tuning sigil, nods in approval. "Can I ask what it is? It has to be something special if you wanted it so badly and there aren't many that can be used in conjunction with a new moon ritual." 

"You have an idea of what it is," Sam says. He takes off his shoes. The cement is cold under his feet. "You found it for me. You touched it. Take a guess."

Caésinha shrugs, carelessly elegant, and watches as Sam grabs a piece of chalk from an open box outside of the circle and takes the goblet into the centre with him. Sam traces out Lilith's sigil and sits back on his heels, taking off his button-up and putting it to one side for the moment. His knife, tucked in its usual place in the back of his jeans, gets taken out and set on the floor. 

"I might have touched it," Caésinha murmurs, "but that doesn't mean I know what you set me to track. If I didn't know better I'd say it was the Goblet of Barbatos. As that one's lost and this one was retrieved so easily," the demon trails off, shrugging a shoulder. 

Sam looks at him, smiles. "It's been found. Now go away." 

Caésinha's in too much shock to argue. He leaves, dazed, immediately. 

Sam makes sure the door's closed tight before he takes a deep breath and sets the goblet. He should really be using someone else's blood as the scrying tool but Sam's managed to avoid human sacrifices thus far and his blood should work. With very careful movements, he slices open his left arm, elbow to wrist, and lets the blood drip out into the goblet. The liquid turns the silver a deep crimson colour, almost black, and the goblet starts to heat up the tiniest bit just when Sam's starting to feel a little light-headed. 

He wraps his arm with his button-up, pulling it tight before tying it on; it's good as a makeshift bandage but will need stitches, probably, if Lilith doesn't heal him. 

"Here we go," Sam mutters. He swallows, sets his shoulders, and reaches forward. 

One finger twirls the blood around, making a shallow whirlpool, as he recites the summoning. 

"I knew you'd figure it out," Lilith says. Her words echo in Sam's ears but not in the basement; she must be speaking to his mind, or else she knows a way to speak directly to him without the noise attracting anyone else. "How'd you find it?" 

"I saw Jezebeth use it once," Sam replies. "Put that together with the fact that hell's records claim one of Azazel's had it last and it wasn't that difficult." 

Lilith laughs. The sound washes over Sam and he can feel the tension leaving his body, melting away in her presence. "Clever, my little prince. Very clever. But, then again, I expect nothing less from you. Tell me, Sam: are you ready to return to us? Sycorax has missed you, as has Lust." 

Sam smiles, ducks his head even though no one is there to see him. "I'm sorry," he says, honestly means it. "I just had some questions and hoped you might be willing to answer them."

"I'd be willing to engage in a little _quid pro quo_ , Samuel," she says after a moment's thought. "I'll answer one of yours if you answer one of mine. I do so love hearing your voice, now that you've your tongue back." 

Shivers run up and down Sam's spine, remembering the agonising pain he felt when Sycorax ripped his tongue out. He remembers every time he wished he had it back, to argue with, to speak with, and thinks that Sycorax knew him quite well at the beginning. Perhaps it was even a mercy. 

"Do you agree, Samuel?" Lilith asks. "I'll even let you go first." 

Even though she can't see him, Sam nods. "I agree." Now that he has the chance, he's not sure where he should start, which question he should ask first: the worry about Dean that had him sending Caésinha out to find the goblet or the recent changes to his power that prompted him to finally take action. No, his power can wait. Dean can't. "I know you've heard that Dean and I started having sex," he says. 

"Lust was pleased," Lilith remarks. "Quite pleased indeed. Which is to say, yes, we've all heard, Samuel. Carry on." 

"Sometimes he bleeds. His forehead and his hands, so far, but he's been itching his wrists as well." Sam pauses, then asks, hesitantly, "How can someone willingly engaging in sin be receiving the stigmata?" 

There's silence for a long moment before Lilith says, "A question for a question. The stigmata. Is it the full?" 

Sam frowns. "No, not yet. He's had minor scratching around his hairline and bled from the centre of his palms. I think the next time we fuck, he'll get the wrist wounds, and the time after that should be the full stigmata. How is this happening? And why?" 

"Two questions," Lilith says. "Though they are somewhat interrelated. Are we clear on that?" 

"Two questions," Sam agrees. "You don't really need to confirm before you answer, Lilith. I." He stops abruptly, about to say that he trusts her. He can't bring himself to say it. 

Lilith doesn't seem to need the words; she must understand him without them. She's always been good at understanding him without needing speech. "To answer the first, it's relatively simple. Dean has been obsessing about you lately. More specifically, about what you underwent during his stay in limbo. I take it there was some recent discussion, perhaps after you began fucking, of the experience?" 

The question is rhetorical and Sam won't count it as one against his. Still, he nods, says, "Yes." 

"We are not so different from our heavenly counterparts, Samuel," she goes on to say. "Their stigmatics receive the wounds from identifying with their saviour. Should not Dean receive the same wounds from identifying with his? Compassion and contemplation, in depths no demon or angel could ever plumb; that is the answer to your 'how.' As for why, I suggest you take it up with your brother. Though," she adds, "I do find it interesting that he shows the signs only in the middle of coitus."

Sam snorts, pinches the bridge of his nose. Fair enough. "Something about my talents has changed. I can sense other demon-connected humans: psychics, bargain-makers, descendants. Sometimes the feel of something supernatural gets through my barriers. What's happening?" 

"Oh, Samuel," Lilith murmurs. If he was in hell, if she was on earth, she'd be touching him. He knows that tone of voice, the one that reminds him of a demon's idea of love, of care and concern. "Oh, my traitorous little prince. Did you think you could separate yourself from us? Did you think you wouldn't change? No, this is the natural expansion of your place among us. You are the prince, Azazel's heir by my acknowledgment. Your gifts might have required time to settle on earth but these are all talents you've always possessed."

"I see," Sam murmurs, looking at the goblet, following the pattern of blood as it keeps swirling. He'll think about this later, but for now, "You have three questions, Lilith." 

She hums but doesn't say anything right away. Sam sits in silence, waiting for her and on her. The calm and quiet seeps into him, relaxing him until he's almost boneless, finding it hard to stay kneeling. He slumps sideways, heart breaking when she isn't there to rest on, when she isn't there to be kissed, loved, worshipped. 

"Your brother," she says, startling Sam with the intrusion of words into their quiet space, "has stopped fucking you. And yet Lust tells me that he is going near mad with the desire to touch you. Why have you not pressed the issue?"

Lilith should know the answer to this. She scoured every crevice of Sam's heart, every nook of his soul and valley of his mind. She knows everything about Sam and should know that Sam won't ever push his brother into doing something that Dean doesn't want to, especially when it comes to something like incest. "I have Caésinha," he answers, "and Ruby. If Dean wants to start having sex again, we will. You know I won't force a decision, Lilith." 

"I know," she says. "But occasionally, Sam, I like to hear it said. For my second question: my daughter has resumed her relationship with me. It seems I have you to thank for it and I do, wholeheartedly, but I must wonder, how will she and Dean share you?"

"Not easily," Sam says, an immediate reply. Lilith snorts. "Dean will get used to her and she already understands the way this is going to work. I'm not giving up either of them unless that's what they want." 

A pause, then Lilith says, "Good luck balancing them," her tone dry. 

Sam resists the urge to laugh, that and bare his neck to his queen. He can almost _feel_ her attention narrowing, focusing in on him, and she says, "I'm glad you're wearing it." Sam lifts a hand to his choker, fingers sliding over the smooth surface of the three amulets, so different and yet each one representing a member of his demonic family. "I wondered if you would. Obviously it's not a collar but I thought you'd appreciate the reminder until you return." 

Just for a moment there, Sam thought he heard something in Lilith's voice, something like longing, like love. It hits him, like it rarely has outside of hell, that as much as he aches for her, he intrigued her. They spent so many eternities together, became so tightly entwined in one another, that he shouldn't be shocked at the thought that maybe she wants him back like a mother misses her son when he leaves home. She ordered his crucifixion and was the first to tie herself to him; she raised him from the dead and gave him leave to return to a brother who tries to understand but won't ever be able to.

"I look forward to it," he murmurs, looking downward. Hair falls in his face and he doesn't push it away; Lilith likes his hair, confessed to missing it in front of Dean. He thinks of her collar and feels his body begin to warm, blood moving to his cock, throat turning dry with want. 

Her third question comes as Sam's pressing the heel of one palm to his dick, mind reeling. 

Lilith asks, "Will you come back now?"

Sam licks his lips and shakes his head. "No," he says, voice scratching, just barely audible. "I can't. Not yet. I. Goodbye, Lilith." 

With that, without waiting for her answer, he tips over the goblet. Blood drains out on to the circle, covering the runes and sigils, breaking the connection to hell. The room is silent. Sam misses her already. 

\--

Caésinha helps Sam clean up and then drops to his knees and sucks Sam off. It doesn't take long for him to come, not with the memory of Lilith's voice echoing in his ears, not with his memories from his time at her mercy drawn to the forefront of his mind. He digs his nails into Caésinha's scalp, no hair to hold on to, and whispers Lilith's name when Caésinha swallows down his orgasm. 

The demon doesn't mention it when Sam's done. He offers to take care of the goblet and Sam agrees, finding himself somewhat relieved that it will be out of Dean's sight. 

They walk back to the motel in silence; halfway down the street, Dean's standing there, waiting. Sam gives Caésinha a nod to go back to the house and the demon starts to protest before Sam glares at him. Caésinha narrows his eyes but leaves Sam facing Dean on a sidewalk. 

"Horehound," Dean says, before Sam can ask. "Again. You took too long. Everything all right?" 

Sam forces a smile and walks to Dean, ending up right in front of him. "I'm gonna have to start checking my clothes every time I leave?"

"Damn straight," Dean says. "No chance in hell I'm letting you get too far away. Is everything all right?" 

"Fine," Sam replies. "I'm just tired. Dealing with Lilith can be exhausting." But not, Sam thinks, for the reasons Dean's imagining. 

\--

Back in the room, Dean seems content to keep an eye on Sam without being at all subtle. The television's on and they're both filling out fake credit card applications but Sam's entirely too aware of the fact that Dean's pen stopped scratching the paper a while ago. 

"I have lice now or something?" Sam asks, eyes still firmly focused on the application, trying to figure out which social security number they haven't used for a while. Dean snorts but doesn't say anything. "Come on, Dean, I'm serious. Stop staring and fill out the damn form. I'm eight up on you already." 

"Seven," Dean mutters. 

Sam doesn't care, though it does get Dean working again -- for all of ten minutes and three applications. 

This time, when Dean sits back and Sam's finished filling out the address for the post office box they have set up in Cleveland, Sam looks up and lays his pen down. He returns Dean's stare, adding an extra raised eyebrow for good measure, before he asks, "What?"

"What did she want?" Dean asks. 

Sam makes a face, tilts his head, says, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Dean says, face still holding the same expression. "What'd she want? What'd you two talk about?"

Shaking his head, Sam says, "What we, Dean, _what_?" 

Dean sighs, rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair, tilting it up on its back two legs. "Y'know. Queen and general, I'm willing to bet it wasn't to make sure you ate breakfast this morning. Which, by the way, you skipped. What did she want? And don't give me any lies, either." 

Sam narrows his eyes, puts his elbows on the table. He eyes his brother, then figures Wrath might as well get something out of this discussion. Ruby will go into hysterics when she finally hears about the tack he's taking. "We were talking about you, actually," he says. The skin around Dean's eyes tightens into fine lines. Sam only notices because he's watching for them. "She wanted to know why you aren't fucking me any more. She seemed quite concerned that it would drive me insane before I could be of any use to her."

"When I get my, hold on," Dean says, stopping his tirade before it even has a chance to get started. " _What_?" 

"It's been a while since we had sex and I haven't had any since then," Sam says. "Well, I haven't had much. Not as much as you. She was worried."

Dean leans forward as well, mirroring Sam's position though nowhere near Sam's level of casual interest. Dean's intent on this conversation. Sam couldn't be more pleased even as he tries to hide it. "Why would she be worried, Sam? Come on, just give me a straight answer for once." 

Sam doesn't have the luxury of wondering whether or not he's made a tactical error, bringing this up in this manner. Still, he waits to answer, carefully choosing his words for their maximum effect without wanting to give too much away. "You know that Azazel fed me his blood," he starts off. Dean nods once but doesn't hurry Sam on. Sam appreciated this, starts to blend lies in with his truth, creating something that Dean should accept without too much trouble. "I'm psychic, to some extent. Whether that was inborn or something Azazel did to me, I don't know, but the blood made everything ten times stronger. It also gave me ties to the demons." 

"Which is why they call you general," Dean says. "It's why they don't have an issue with following you. And going to hell just made it all that much worse. Shit." 

"It means that I have to centre my power to keep it from driving me insane." Sam takes a deep breath, stares at the table. There's a scratch in one of the seams. "We do that through sex. We, the psychic kids, we have sex and it keeps us sane. The pain, that's just me, that's from Lilith, but." 

He doesn't want to look up to see Dean's reaction but he does, immediately wishes he hasn't. His brother's pale, sitting there like someone just told him the Impala's been totaled and stripped for parts. He looks the way he did when they set their father's body on fire, or the moment after Sam spoke one word and saved Dean's soul for eternity. 

"That's what she meant," Dean whispers. Sam frowns, shakes his head because he doesn't understand. "She said I was killing you. I thought that you, that the pain was all, but then she said. She said you could get what you needed from her."

One of these days, Ruby's going to say too much. Dean's not an idiot but Ruby treats him like she treats most humans, like they're stupid sheep. She does seem to interact with perhaps a little more delight at being annoying and mysterious when it comes to Dean; whether that's because she generally doesn't like Dean or doesn't like what he is to Sam is a toss-up. 

"You know me," Sam says, aiming for light and coming up pretty close, as far as he's concerned. "Can't do anything by halves. Turns out I can go a lot longer than they all guessed. I'm not falling apart, Dean, and I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty. Just, y'know. If you could get over whatever moral guilt-trip you're having right now, that'd be nice." 

Dean scowls, says, "You think this is some kind of," before stopping abruptly. "That doesn't sound like something you'd say. Not that you've been saying much since you. But not like you." 

Sam shrugs. "I've changed, Dean. But there are some things about me that haven't. Do you know how old I was the first time I ever looked at you and wondered what it might be like to have sex with you?" Dean shakes his head. "I was sixteen." 

"No," Dean says, shaking his head again. "No, that's not. Sam, you can't mean that. _Sixteen_? No, no way." 

"Sixteen," Sam says, despite the hurt lancing through him at Dean's denial. "So believe me, the first time you kissed me? I wasn't about to complain, with or without this stupid demon thing." He looks at his brother, decides that one more shock won't kill Dean, and adds, "It was better than I thought. I know you don't want to hurt me and that's fine, I can go to Caésinha for that or any number of other demons, but I would really rather not ask any demons to fuck me when you're right here." He pauses and then, in an echo of Dean's words months ago, asks, "Unless you're not? In which case, Ruby would." 

Dean snarls. Sam raises an eyebrow. "Just because I said I'd try to behave doesn't mean I want to think about you and her," Dean says, voice heated, low and rough. "Yes, I'm here. Damn it, Sam, I've always been here. I just never knew there was. _Sixteen_? You've hidden it all this time. You never said a _word_. I never knew." 

Sam licks his lips, crows inwardly when Dean's eyes dip down and follow the glide of Sam's tongue for a split-second. "You weren't supposed to. I've always been good at keeping secrets."

Silence fills the room after that declaration. Sam's watching Dean, who's watching him back, and wondering what the fuck Dean's going to say next or if he should say something. The room's so quiet it almost feels suffocating. Sam thinks about his first eternity in hell, when Sycorax left him alone in the room, how he thought Dean would have gone crazy and Sycorax was convinced Dean would have survived it better than Sam did. Sitting here, waiting, is a hunter's game. Sam doesn't know when Dean will break but he does know that Dean will. 

It takes a good ten minutes before Dean says anything. He shifts first, licks his lips and opens his mouth once, twice, without saying anything. Finally, Dean says, "I hated hurting you." Sam nods; he knew that. Dean wasn't shy about telling him just how much. "I. The sex was. But I hated hurting you."

"It doesn't have to be like that," Sam says, leaning forward, stretching out one hand across the surface of the table. "Not always, not ever. I can get that from other people, other things. But I want _you_ , Dean, and I don't want to force you into that. It." He lets a little chuckle out, tinged with bitterness and regret. "It didn't work too well last time." 

Dean nods. With Sam watching, praying, Dean hesitantly reaches out one hand and places his palm on top of Sam's. Dean's skin is warm and his eyes are very bright. 

Sam smiles. Dean closes his eyes. 

\--

They sleep in the same bed later, when they finally go to bed. They don't have sex, though Dean does look at Sam as if he should be offering for the sake of Sam's sanity. 

"Like I said," Sam grins, "I can go a lot longer than they think I can. 'Sides, I'm tired." 

Dean looks relieved. 

Sam tries not to wince. He tries to get Dean to understand that consensual sex -- at least, between them -- has nothing to do with saying yes or no but everything to do with _want_. It takes time and effort. They start by getting one bed at motels, Dean raising eyebrows and making lewd comments at some of the clerks, Sam giving the rest a flat glare he learned from Lilith that shuts them up quickly. 

The first time Dean offers, as Sam's coming out of the bathroom, pyjama bottoms low on his hips and the tips of his hair wet and curling on the nape of his neck, Sam refuses as gently as he can. Dean frowns but doesn't push the issue. Over time, days turning into weeks turning into months, Dean begins to understand that Sam is completely serious and would rather go crazy than let Dean fuck him without Dean being into it, heart and soul as well as body. 

They fuck a few times after hunts, adrenaline running through their blood like the most potent aphrodisiac, the urge to prove that they're alive and together more overwhelming than anything else. The first time they have sex on a bed, Dean is gentle and Sam is on his back, watching his brother. Dean's face can be so expressive during sex. Sam never knew. 

The next time is more hurried, Dean pinning Sam against the door of a seedy little bar and breathing out, "Mine, all mine," in Sam's ear. After they settle their bill, as they're walking out, a waitress, three men, and two other women flash black eyes at Sam. He can't find it in himself to feel guilty. 

Once Sam's sure that Dean's enjoying himself, doing this because he wants to with the threat of Sam's power spiralling out of control firmly forgotten, he asks, "How much would you hate to do more? If it didn't require anything physical from you, I mean." 

Dean stares at him, waits a couple beats, then says, "I have _no_ idea what you're talking about. What the fuck are you talking about?" 

"Rosaries," Sam says. He reaches into his duffel, carefully takes out two with a pair of socks between his hands and the beads, and tosses them at Dean. "They'll hurt and it doesn't require much from you." 

Dean looks at the necklaces in his hands, then at the choker around Sam's throat. "Not much?"

"All you'll have to do is tie them around my wrists," Sam says. "Nothing else." 

Dean's looking back down at them as he asks, "Are you _sure_? I know you don't react to them. Is it the blasphemy?" 

Sam bites his bottom lip, turns away. "I do react to them." He can hear Dean breathing, something rhythmic, comforting. Dean's looking at him now but isn't saying anything. He's waiting for more when before he would have pushed. Sam looks down at his hands, picks the skin around one nail. "All holy elements. They hurt. There's a way to make that entirely mental with no visible effects, so I can feel it without any outward signs, but they always hurt."

"Every time we walk into a church," Dean murmurs. "Every time we use holy water or cross a salt line or you say an exorcism. Every time." He pauses as if he's casting his mind back, then asks, "What do you see when you look at a picture of the Virgin?" 

"Lilith," Sam says. He folds his arms, crosses them tight and digs his nails into the fleshy part of his sides, lower than his armpits. "Weeping blood, usually." 

Dean doesn't say anything for a long moment. "So if I tie these around your wrists, what happens?" 

"I won't transmute the pain," Sam replies. "You'll be able to see how it feels for me." 

The room is silent. Sam stands there, back to his brother, waiting. Dean says, " _Ave Maria_ ," and Sam doesn't hide the flinch. He can feel a welt on his upper back and pulls his shirt off, tosses it to the side. He stands there for Dean's inspection. "I can _pray_ and it hurts you," Dean says. " _Pater noster_." Like a whip, the words span Sam's lower back and leave a white line that breaks open a second later to bleed. "Fuck."

"If we could get to doing that," Sam says, voice unsteady. He has no idea how Dean's reacting to this, how Dean's taking it, and he's too scared to turn around and look. The humour in that is terrifying: the prince of hell afraid of a human's reaction to what should be an obvious demonic trait. 

"Yeah," Dean says. His voice sounds rough. "Yeah. Let's." Sam turns around, stares at his brother, sees spots of colour high in each of Dean's cheeks. " _In nomine patris_?" Dean says, like it's a question. 

The skin on Sam's chest splits apart right over his sternum. Dean looks fascinated and horrified by his fascination. "I guess maybe we should've started with you praying," Sam says, a little winded. His brother is not only getting off on seeing Sam bleed -- on _making_ him bleed -- but doing it by _praying_. "I never knew you were this kinky." 

Dean licks his lips, still staring at the blood dripping down Sam's chest. He tears his eyes away and looks up, meets Sam's. "Neither," he starts to say, has to clear his throat, try again. "Neither did I." Denial would be useless at this point.

\--

They find a pair of handcuffs in the bottom of Dean's duffel and use those to restrain Sam, looping the cuffs around one of the wrought-iron columns in the headboard's design. Sam pulls but the metal doesn't give, instead cutting into his wrists, starting to burn. Dean asks once more if Sam's sure; when Sam says yes, Dean loops the rosaries around Sam's wrists, draping them over the handcuffs. 

The places where they touch Sam's skin stings for a moment. The longer they're touching, the more painful it gets, until Sam's skin starts to turn pink, then red. The beads are burning him and Sam arches his back, closes his eyes, as the burns blister and pop and peel, blister and pop and peel, over and over. The burns never get too deep, though, never reach in and touch bone like acid did in hell, but, then again, there's no Lilith here to heal him. 

"Jesus," Dean mutters, standing at the foot of the bed and watching. Sam flinches as a fresh bruise blossoms on his jaw. "Are you." 

"I'm sure," Sam says, cutting his brother off. He's hard, aching, and an inch away from using every means at his disposal to get Dean fucking him, even if it means Dean will hate him. Sam opens his eyes, looks at his brother, and pleads, through the pain, "For. Just _fuck me_ , Dean, come on, _now_." 

Dean nods, waits a second, the flurries into movement. He strips, leaves the clothes where they land, and has a slick finger inside of Sam before another round of blisters form and then pop. 

"Forget the fucking lube," Sam hisses, spreading his legs wider. "I said _now_."

"You've always been bossy," Dean mutters. 

He takes his finger out, looks like he's deep in thought, and Sam knows his brother well enough to know that Dean's considering not listening to Sam, to prepping him thoroughly. They've both come a long way from that first time. "I want it to hurt," Sam says, tugging at the handcuffs, the rosaries sliding to fresh skin and starting to burn. "I like it when it hurts. You know that, Dean." 

Dean takes a deep breath and nods. He forces himself inside and it does hurt. Sam groans in pleasure. Eased by Sam's reaction, Dean slides almost all of the way out and then slams in again. Sam arches, the handcuffs digging in to burnt skin and getting slippery with blood, and begs for more. Dean gives it to him. 

\--

When they're done, after Dean's taken off the rosaries and the handcuffs, bandaged Sam's wrists, stitched up the two cuts on Sam's chest and back, they lie side by side in the same bed, staring at the ceiling. Dean's rubbing his wrists but not, Sam thinks, in sympathetic pain. It's one spot, over and over again, like it itches. 

Sam doesn't volunteer any information. Dean doesn't ask. They fall asleep. They wake up, tangled in each other.


	11. Chapter 11

They settle in Charleston, South Carolina, two weeks later. Both of them expect this job to take a while, one of the ones that would've had their father enrolling Sam in a new school for a semester fifteen years ago. Charleston isn't a bad city; it's clean and the people are friendly. Being around so many churches has Sam on edge but there's something here that both sets off his radar and seems to glide _around_ it. Sam's sure it's related to the rash of disappearances they came here to investigate: four hundred over the last two hundred days, ninety in the last month.

They do the research, start pinning things on walls like their father used to do. Eventually two out of four walls are covered and they need to take a step back from the minutiae of their research to look over the larger picture of their findings. Dean starts with the people reported missing to see if there are any similarities, while Sam works from the other end, everything strange they've found, from an increase in shrimp catches to more humid weather.

Sam's halfway around the room, looking at a clipped-out newspaper article about several sewage leaks that necessitated boiling all water before it was safe to drink. Sam stops, stares. "Before God created angels, he created something else," Sam says, "something older. Not full deities but not servants -- something close to equal."

"In the time of Lilith?" Dean asks. For the first time, there's no underlying hatred when Dean says her name. Dean's still studying. "She wasn't demon but she wasn't human, either. After she fled Raziel she became something else entirely. Right?"

Sam gives his brother a smile full of sadness and long-buried memories. "God made her from fire. Even though she fled Adam, she never forgot him. Her remembrance turned to hatred for all of God's creation. But Adam. Someone once said that Adam's lips said Eve even as his soul always echoed Lilith." Sam shakes his head, tries to banish the memory. Dean's lips twist. "Anyway. God made Adam from the earth and Lilith from fire. Kabbalah says that there were three others, one from water, one from air, and something made from light. Lilith ran and changed. Adam Kadmon sinned and fell with Eve. Adam's responsible for humans and Lilith for a certain brand of demons, all the rest from light, which was Michael and the rest of the angels except for the ones who fell and turned into darkness. Anyway. Why shouldn't the other two have descendants?" 

Dean looks thoughtful, is chewing on his lower lip while his forehead settles into furrows. "Jim said something about that once," he says. Sam turns to Dean, shakes his head. He doesn't remember that. "After you left, maybe. Something about ghosts? I can't remember." 

"Ghosts would be air, I think," Sam says. "So water's the only thing left."

"And we are pretty close to water," Dean replies. There's a pause and then Dean makes a noise in the back of his throat, says, "Tualatin River. Roanoke. You think this is the same type of thing?"

Sam frowns, then goes over to the laptop, does a search for something he thinks he might remember. Google comes up with the answer and sends Sam over to Wikipedia with one click. "San Miguel de Gualdape," he says. "It was the first Spanish settlement in America. The majority of the settlers died and the next batch, slaves, all disappeared. None of the settlers that survived said anything about bodies, though. They just _assumed_ the others died. It could very well be the same type of thing. Shit." 

Dean's eyebrow is raised when Sam looks over the top of the computer to meet his brother's eyes. "Shit, what?"

"You do realise that if we're right," Sam says, slowly, "then we're up against something that's older and more powerful than most _demons_ right? Something that may or may not have power close to or equal to God's?" 

"God hasn't done anything for us," Dean says. "And it could be one of their descendants, not that being itself. Adam fell and Lilith doesn't like earth; hunters and demons don't have as much power as the originals. We'll be fine. Is there anyone here who might have more information on what we're dealing with?" 

Sam thinks about that for a moment, finally says, "I'll have to look. There might be a Jesuit priest assigned to one of the churches here. If anyone would know or would know who else could help, it would be a Jesuit." 

Dean nods, says, "Fine. We'll look tomorrow. We have a lead inside of two weeks; this deserves celebration."

\--

They go out to a bar and grab some dinner, have a few beers. For once, Sam joins his brother in a game of pool and tries not to laugh when Dean spends more time checking out Sam's ass than he does lining up his shots. Still, Dean's better than Sam and wins.

"Think you owe me something for that," Dean says, voice whiskey-smooth and twice as intoxicating. 

Sam, back pressed against the wall with his brother's weight leaning on him, Dean's breath riding the curve of Sam's jaw, swallows. "Wasn't aware we made a bet." 

Dean's grin shows off bright teeth. "I think it was understood," he murmurs, lips moving closer to Sam's neck, ear, mouth. "You gonna argue with me, Sammy?" 

"It's Sam, and you," is all that Sam gets out before Dean's lips are on his, stopping him from saying anything more. Sam doesn't mind the method, brings his hands up to rest on Dean's hips, thumbs tangled up with belt loops, and opens his mouth to Dean's tongue. 

They kiss, lazy and wet, taking their time, until someone else clears their throat. Dean turns his head, skin still so very close to Sam's mouth, and says, "Yeah?" 

"We don't like that kind of thing in here," a guy says. "You wanna do that, leave and go somewhere else." 

He doesn't sound threatening but when Sam turns and looks, he sees that the guy's been elected spokesman for a group of five and three of them look like they'd love nothing more than to break a few bones. Dean straightens up, looks like he's going for them, but Sam doesn't want his brother spending the night in jail. His hands, still grasping the waistband of Dean's jeans, thumbs still in the loops, hold Dean back. 

Dean turns to him, almost disappointed, but Sam's eyes flicker and he drops the barrier to his powers. Without looking at the five men, they go flying backwards. Sam turns to make sure that the three who looked particularly hostile are all unconscious. 

"Neat trick," Dean murmurs, "but that's not exactly fair, Sam. Why'd you get to have all the fun?" 

"Because you're not all worn out now." Sam's grin is smug. "Which means we can go back to the room and fuck." 

Dean's grin moves in slow but is no less territorial for the action. "Sometimes your geek brain's good for something," Dean says, grabbing Sam's hand and pulling him out of the bar. Behind them, people are trying to get the three unconscious guys to wake up. Sam wishes them the best of the luck but it's going to take a while. 

\--

Dean's buried balls-deep in Sam's ass when he pauses, mid-stroke, and says, "I'm bleeding." 

Sam doesn't care, even when something about what Dean's said is striking chords deep within his mind. He whines, clenches around Dean's cock, and flinches when Dean smacks his ass and pulls out all the way. Dean turns Sam over, shoves his wrists in Sam's face. 

"Dude, _Sam_ ," he says. "I'm _bleeding_." 

Even as Sam's blinking, trying to focus, he can see the stream of blood from Dean's wrists stop. Whatever wounds were there are healing and healing fast. Within a few seconds, they're completely back to normal as if nothing happened. 

Dean gets up off the bed, erection flagging, and makes his way to the bathroom. Sam can hear the tap turning on, can hear Dean scrubbing, and he wonders if he imagined seeing the same blood on Dean's ankles as he walked out of Sam's sight. He sighs when he hears Dean shout some expletives; Dean's seen his ankles, then. 

"What the fuck?" Dean calls out, still in the bathroom. "Sam? Tell me what the hell's going on, because I sure as fuck do not appreciate this." 

Sam doesn't know what to say. Lilith didn't tell him much but did, in her own way, confirm Sam's suspicions; Sam hasn't got a clue how to tell Dean what conclusions he's reached or that they are, still, only conclusions, nothing firm, nothing for sure. 

He reaches up, presses two fingers to Ruby's amulet and thinks as hard as he can in her direction. He wants her here, needs the steadiness she brings to him, princess to prince, needs the silent understanding. He wants Dean fucking him, pressing him deeper into her, wants pain and blood of his own. 

When the door flings open and Ruby throws a bag in the room then stands there, hands on hips, says, "That's a pretty picture," he can only feel relief. 

Dean peers out from around the bathroom door, growls, " _Fuck_ ," and emerges a second later with a towel wrapped around his hips, doing nothing to hide that he's still half hard. "Don't you people ever _knock_?"

"You people?" Ruby asks, tone and expression as contrary as ever when it comes to the way she always interacts with Dean. "What the hell do _you_ mean, you _people_?"

Sam sighs as Dean's eyes narrow; while this has gotten Dean's mind off of the stigmata, Sam really wasn't trying to trade that discussion for a full-out argument. "Ruby?" 

She turns to Sam, then, lets her eyes trail over his body, naked and sporting a few old bruises, mostly from hickeys. Ruby lifts an eyebrow, allows her lips to curve into a predatory smile. Sam meets her eyes, can't help the answering smile, soft and speaking volumes. 

"You don't have many marks," she says, looking at him again, this time with the eyes of a professional. "Are you getting enough of what you need?" 

A one-shouldered shrug is all Sam gives her; any answer would be negative and he doesn't want to provoke Dean, not ever, definitely not in this situation. 

Ruby turns to Dean, expression clearly disapproving. Sam thinks she's looking at Dean like she might look at a hunter, two seconds before she tears their throat open or snaps their neck. She's telling Dean he's despicable and useless, worthless, all without words. Judging from the way Dean's tense, standing there with fingers itching for a gun, he's getting the message loud and clear. 

"If you're worried about it," Ruby says, "then let him fuck me. While you watch, of course," she adds, mocking. 

Sam stares at Ruby, waiting for Dean's instant denial. It doesn't come. He turns, slowly, and looks at his brother. Dean's watching him. Sam's breath hitches. He can't honestly believe that Dean's even _considering_ it. He's known that Dean's still reluctant to hurt Sam beyond what happens when they have sex, hasn't pushed it farther than that and hasn't needed to, not with the amount of sex they've been having lately, but to think that Dean's so screwed up about it that he wouldn't shoot Ruby down immediately? Sam's confused. 

"You said I'd have to get used to her," Dean says in the silence. "And this way, she's doing you some good." He snorts, has Sam wincing with the self-deprecating tone as he adds, "Giving you what I can't." 

"Dean," Sam says, stops when his brother shakes his head. 

Dean glances at Ruby, who's standing there watching the both of them, and then looks back at Sam. "I'll be right here," he says. 

"And if I do something that upsets you?" Ruby asks him. "I'm a demon. Sam gets off on pain. We go a little further than mere humans. I can guarantee you won't like this." 

"If Sam's okay with it," Dean says, jaw jutting out, "I'll deal."

Dean and Ruby look at Sam. Their negotiations are apparently over and they're waiting for Sam to sign on the proverbial dotted line. Sam's mouth is drier than the Sahara at the thought of Dean doing this for him and then _watching_. "You've never hurt me," Sam says, addressing Ruby with a tone that hinges closer to fond than accusing. "Not once. If Caésinha or Vetis," he says, trailing off when she starts shaking her head. 

"You know what I am," she says. Dean looks confused when Sam's eyes flick to his brother. "I can give you what you need, Sam."

Sam looks at his brother, really looks, and asks, "You don't mind? Honestly?" It boggles his mind; usually Dean is more than merely possessive of the people he's fucking and the things he feels belong to him. He pauses at the thought, wonders if maybe Dean's agreeing because he doesn't feel that Sam is really his, that Sam would ever be willing to give himself to Dean like that. What if Dean doesn't know that Sam already has?

It looks like it kills Dean to say, "If it's what you need, then no. I don't mind." 

"You're sure?" Sam asks. 

Dean scowls. "Yes," he bites out. "I'm sure." As if punctuating his statement, Dean thumps down into one of the room's chairs, crosses his arms over his chest. "Do what you wanna do. I won't stop you. Or her." 

Sam knows he should turn Ruby down but the thought of her wielding a whip has his skin bursting into goosebumps, has him swallowing. He holds Dean's gaze then turns to Ruby, sits up, stands. Her smile is dark, cruel. She has never looked more beautiful. 

Ruby strips with ruthless efficiency. Dean, behind Sam, makes a noise then quickly cuts it off. Sam tries to look at Ruby as Dean might, tries to take in the breasts, the curve of Ruby's hips, the way her blonde hair falls artlessly over her shoulders, her black eyes and trimmed pubic hair. He doesn't care, though, can't separate her body from the demon he can see inside of her, beautiful in her own right. 

"Lucky I came prepared," she murmurs, and bends over, opens the bag she threw down when she walked inside. Dean will be studying the curve of her ass, Sam knows, but all Sam can focus on is what she slowly pulls out of the bag, inch by tantalising inch. 

Sonneillon chose a singletail made from deerskin that he handled with such accuracy it might as well have been kangaroo, for all the pain it caused, and Vetis _did_ use kangaroo, that and canes when Sam was in Herculaneum. Ruby pulls out a flogger first, made from some type of leather; she'll use that to warm Sam up, not as the main event. Sam keeps looking, watches as a cat-o-nine-tails, made from rubber, comes out of the bag. Sam gets shivers when he sees that the rubber's been cut and tied into barbs at each point and that there are small pieces of curved metal plaited into the falls. 

"Oh, there is no _way_ ," Dean starts to say. 

Ruby looks at Sam and Sam turns to his brother, barely able to rip his eyes away from the cat. "Dean, you promised," he says, close to begging. 

Dean looks incredulous. "You. You _want_ that? Sam, come _on_. You have to be crazy."

"You want him to be happy?" Ruby asks, voice snapping like the crack of a whip into the middle of the Winchesters' argument. "Then let him do this." 

Sam drops to his knees, holds his hands out to the side. He faces Dean, can see the instant that Dean settles back in to the chair, body rigid, every muscle tense. Dean clearly does not approve but Sam doesn't care, not with Ruby behind him, cat in her hands and all of Sam's back as her canvas. 

She warms him up, lets the flogger dance over his skin, varying the places it hits and the intensity of each strike. Dean looks content enough with this though he frowns and shifts when she starts hitting harder, the sound of the flogger hitting Sam's skin clearly audible. Only when his back, ass, and his upper arms feel like they're on a soft, slow burn, does Ruby toss the flogger to the bed. 

Dean tenses when Ruby tests her hold, falls flying out to one side as she adjusts to the weight and width of the handle. Sam closes his eyes, lets a smile cross his lips, and holds his breath. The first time the cat hits him, it's soft, a warning of what's to come, a last chance to say no. He clenches his hands into fists, holds them tight, then relaxes and stretches out his fingers, palms parallel to the carpet. 

He hears the sound of the tails flying through the air and hitting his back before he feels the impact. His upper back, on the left, and the metal digs in, leaves small lines of blood before they retreat, rubber stinging its own lines across his skin. Sam lets out a breath as the pain washes over him, through him. He hasn't had this in a long time, too long, and the feeling sends him out of his mind with pleasure-pain. 

The next strike pushes him forward and his lips part, breath coming out in a growl. He wishes he could see Ruby, the look of focus she'd have, the look of fierce joy he knows is on her face. He opens his eyes as the third strike connects with his ass. 

Dean's pale, haunted, even scared. "Tell her to stop," Dean whispers. "Shit, Sam, tell her." 

"Shut up," Sam hisses, cutting his brother off. The next strike lands. Sam's arms shake from the effort of holding them up, level. "Shut the fuck up, Dean." 

Another, another, another, and Sam doesn't want to read whatever thoughts Dean's letting bleed through his eyes. Sam shuts his, gives in to the feeling of the rubber stinging against his skin, leaving white-hot lines of fire across him, raising welts and opening up the skin. The metal pieces cut him open but don't go deep, testament to Ruby's control. Growls turn to whines, exhalations of pain to moans, and despite trying to close himself off into his body for the pure enjoyment of this, he can hear Dean's shocked inhale when his brother finally looks down and sees how hard Sam is. 

It probably hasn't really sunk in before now; Dean knows Sam's a masochist but has never been confronted with the full reality of that apart from Miami, and that was different, less personal. Now, seeing Ruby wield a cat with inhuman precision, seeing Sam kneeling and taking it, _wanting_ it, Dean will know, once and for all, how much his time in hell has changed Sam. 

A pause, then a flurry of strokes, then another pause, and the next thing Sam feels is Ruby's tongue lapping up the blood from his shoulder as her fingers smear in his blood and fight their way inside his ass. 

"Do you think he'd fuck you like this?" Ruby asks, in a whisper loud enough for Dean to hear. "Do you think he'd fuck you, covered in blood, after watching you beg for the cat? Do you think he wants you, Sam?" 

Sam opens his eyes again, meets his brother's gaze. Ruby leans on him, hair tickling the edges of multiple cuts, and reaches around, strokes Sam's dick. Dean's mouth is open, horror in his eyes, the faintest edge of arousal easy to see outlined through the thin towel. Ruby twists her fingers inside of Sam and he arches, lets out a harsh, plaintive mewl. 

"Then why," she asks, deliberate, "isn't he the one doing this to you?" She takes her fingers out of Sam's ass, lifts a hand and lets a jar of lube fly into her palm, smacking against her skin. What she's doing, Sam doesn't know, not until she shoves the handle of the cat inside of him, holds it there and says, "Don't let it fall out." 

She moves, crawls on her hands and knees in front of Sam, between the brothers, and stays there. Her head is at lip-level with Dean's crotch though three feet back and she reaches out, rips the towel off of Dean's lap. "Fuck me, Sam," she commands, "and don't let it fall out." 

Sam looks at Dean first but the fire consuming his skin has delved inside, heated up a need that shouldn't be able to fit inside of a human shell. He's hard, leaking, and she's wet when he holds her hips, leans up, and slides into her with one easy thrust. He stays still for a moment, lets her adjust around him, lets their demonic clouds slide up against one each other like purring cats. Chills run down his spine and then she drops her head, says, " _Now_."

He fucks her hard and fast like most other times: no mercy, no give. The noises they make fill the air along with the smell of blood and sex. Sam looks up, sees Dean watching them with narrowed eyes, hand fisted around his dick, and Sam's muscles clench around the cat's handle in his ass. He wishes it was Dean's cock, imagines that it is, and comes. 

Ruby hasn't yet; Sam pulls out of her, pushes her head down and hoists her hips up, eats his come out of her pussy until she climaxes. Sam breathes hard, tries to calm, and looks up to see that Dean's come, watching them, and Ruby's hair is matted to her back, strands caught in the sweat covering her back like tiny drops of rain. 

Dean stares at Sam and Sam sits up, reaches around and pulls the handle out of him with barely a grimace, eyes on Dean the whole time. The handle comes out with a squelch and Sam tosses the cat to one side, says, "Thank you." 

Ruby snorts, then starts laughing. Dean throws her out of their room and locks the door before she can even get dressed.

\--

He pushes Sam to the bed, makes Sam lie on his stomach while Dean patches him up. None of the cuts went too deep but Dean's feeling guilty, Sam thinks, so he lets Dean wipe off the blood with a damp face-cloth and coat his skin with antibiotic cream. With that done, Dean wrangles Sam into the bathroom, orders him to brush his teeth and use half the bottle of Listerine they just bought. 

"Don't want to _think_ about kissing you while that bitch's come is all over your teeth," Dean mutters. 

Sam doesn't argue, just brushes and rinses and gargles until Dean's satisfied, then finds himself with a mouthful of Dean's tongue, fucking his mouth fast and deep. 

"You are never," Dean says between kisses, sharp, short little nips to Sam's lips, "doing that in front of me again." 

When Dean calms down, Sam folds himself to rest his forehead on Dean's shoulder. The emptiness that pain brings him is threatening to leave, taking the calm along with it. Sam wants to shake in the aftermath and does. Dean is concerned enough to hustle Sam back to bed. 

Sam's half asleep when Dean bends down, places the gentlest kiss Sam's ever had from anyone, including Jess and Lilith, on his forehead. "Never again, Sam. I couldn't stand to see it. I don't care what I have to do but _I'll_ do it. If anyone's going to hurt you, I don't trust it to be someone who." 

He stops. Sam's not asleep enough to miss what Dean isn't saying. He makes a pleased noise, knocks Dean out from under his elbows, and while Dean's on his back, off-guard, Sam rolls half on top of him, mouths at the juncture of Dean's shoulder and neck. "M'kay," he murmurs, asleep enough to let his voice turn hazy, his thoughts distant. "I love you, too." 

Dean doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

\--

Neither of them say much the next morning, just delve into the research, but something has changed. Something, and nothing. 

Dean cleans the flogger and the cat while Sam starts making phone calls, leaves them out on top of Ruby's bag. Sam puts them back inside of it but moves the bag next to his own duffel when Dean's ordering lunch. 

There's nothing to talk about; Dean's a man of actions and Sam speaks his brother's language.

\--

After lunch, Sam makes a few more phone calls. He ends the third and swivels in his chair to face Dean, not letting any sign of the ache emanating from his ass resonate onto his face. "There's an S.T.L. teaching at the College of Charleston," he says. "He's also a Jesuit. I've scheduled a meeting in an hour. We should probably leave now." 

Dean nods, sighs, sweeps to his feet and picks up his keys. "Jesuits," he mutters. "Damn it."

Feeling sympathetic is the least of Sam's worries right now. They've had a tumultuous history with the Society of Jesus members they've run across before; their father alienated half of them and the other half were wary of trusting non-ordained hunters, as if sanction from the Pope would have made them better, more dedicated. Jim wasn't like that but Jim wasn't a Jesuit, either, and had more loyalty to his old friends and his parish than any one society. 

Sam's willing to suspend judgment but not after they get to Father Sidwel 's office and knock. The priest raises an eyebrow just looking at them. 

"I take it you aren't students," he says, inviting them in to his office. 

Dean bristles but Sam gives his brother a look and Dean settles, crosses his arms over his chest. 

"We aren't religious studies students," Sam agrees. 

Father Sidwel meets Sam's gaze, gives them both a faint smile. "Perhaps I should say you aren't students at this college, then. But why you've singled me out, I'm not sure." 

Sam gazes at the priest but doesn't say anything right away. His father used to do this as well, used to use the silence to try and see how good the priest was at waiting, how they might act during the hunt. Teachers, though, they're used to waiting until a student speaks. This one could go either way. Sam focuses on the residual pain in his back, lets it carry him through the silence like a close friend.

The priest waits but as three minutes becomes four, a hint of exasperation enters Father Sidwel's eyes. Sam relaxes, knowing he's already won, and Dean, beside him, snorts. 

"We're hunters," Sam says. There's no point waiting now that they have the upper hand. "And we need to find someone who can answer a few questions for us. Whether that's you or if you put us in contact with someone else, we don't care." 

"You're sure I'll help you?" the priest asks. "How can you be so sure?" 

Dean grins and says, "Because you're a Jesuit in the field. Your vows demand it." 

Father Sidwel narrows his eyes and looks between the two Winchesters. Sam knows the priest's trying to decide how these two men know the vows a Jesuit has to take, as well as try to place their names. That one won't work; Sam gave the secretary fake names when he scheduled the appointment. 

"Tell me who you are," Father Sidwel says, "and I'll tell you what you need to know. If I can't help, I'll put in you contact with someone who can." 

Sam looks at his brother. They don't need to agree to this, not calling on the priest's vows, but a little cooperation goes a long way with these guys. Not to mention, giving their names warns the priest off from calling other hunters and lets Father Sidwel know exactly who he's dealing with. 

Dean gives Sam the slightest shrug, nothing the priest would see, just enough for someone who's spent the majority of his life taking every little cue from the smallest of Dean's gestures and movements. 

"Sam and Dean," Sam says. "Winchesters." 

It's gratifying to see Father Sidwel lean back in his chair, steepling his fingers together and looking back and forth from Sam to Dean. "I see," he says. "Well. Ask what you need to." 

"It has to do with Lilith, Adam Kadmon, Michael, and the other two primordial beings," Sam says. 

Father Sidwel's eyes narrow. "That's not sacred theology. That's Kabbalah, and heresy beside." 

Out of the corner of his eyes, with the small amount of awareness that Sam always devotes to Dean no matter what else they're doing, Sam can see his brother's lips thin. "But you know it," Dean says. "You'd have to learn it if you're calling it heresy."

"Both of the other two primordials keep out of humanity's business," the priest eventually says. "If you're here to ask about their descendants, I probably don't know any more than you do." He pauses, adds reluctantly, "There is a group here in Charleston that might be able to assist if you can convince them you need the help more than they need the secret."

This time, Sam turns to his brother, nothing subtle or discreet. Dean's smile is faint but the worry in his eyes speaks volumes. Father Sidwel hasn't dissuaded them, hasn't said anything that might suggest they're leaping to the wrong conclusions or investigating something beyond their means. What he's heard about them, what he's guessed about this hunt, Sam wants to know. Judging from the look in Dean's eyes, he wants to know as well. 

"I think we could convince them," Sam finally says, looking back at the priest. "We'd appreciate the lead." 

Father Sidwel nods, leans forward and rifles through his top drawer for a moment. He pulls out a business card and flips it over, scrawls something on the back before handing it over to Sam. Sam glances at the card, notes the name then the number on the reverse, before giving it to his brother. Dean pockets the card without looking at it. 

"I would say good luck but I doubt you'll need it." The priest's looking right at Sam, gaze contemplative. "Though, couldn't you outsource this one? There must be perks, being the general of the demonic army."

"We're leaving," Dean says, right on the heels of Father Sidwel's statement. Dean stands up, gives Sam a hard warning with his look. 

Sam follows his brother's lead and rises. Dean walks out of the office and Sam does as well, though he pauses on his way through the door. As far as he knows, any gossip about his status will have come from the priests they met up with in Maine. All they heard was that he was a general but they also hopefully passed on the fact that he helped with the capture and exorcism of the witch. 

"Just because I'm their general doesn't mean I'm not one of yours, as well," he says. "Ever heard of press-gangs?" 

Father Sidwel's face is unguarded and shocked as Sam turns his back and walks out of the Religious Studies offices. 

\--

"You lie to priests," Dean says, once they're safely in the Impala and heading off campus. "Dude." 

"So do you," Sam snaps. "On a regular basis and you have for years, so don't start with me, Dean." 

Dean lifts his hands off of the steering wheel, says, "Hey, back off, Samantha. I just meant. Y'know, I never lied about my demonic heritage. Press-gangs? Not true." 

Sam shrugs, looks out of the window and fights down the urge to summon Vetis. He takes off his hoodie, just to have something for his hands to do. "It's not that untrue. I never asked for this. Never had a choice."

"So." Dean's tone clearly means he's willing to let this drop and change the subject. Sam can tell his brother's searching for a new topic and Sam doesn't feel inclined to help Dean at all despite their earlier understanding. That's different; that was them and this is business. "The card he gave us," Dean says, pulling it out of his pocket, "you gonna call them?" 

Sam grins, "Nope. It's a Friday. They'll be meeting tonight. How do you feel about crashing a gathering of the Illuminati?"

Dean stops at a light and glances at his brother. "Think they'll let us in?" 

"Oh, yeah," Sam replies. "We have the password. They'll _have_ to let us in."

A mischievous gleam has dyed Dean's eyes close to golden in the sun. Sam has trouble hearing what Dean says but nods in all the right places.

\--

They park in a lot between Market and Princess, on Archdale. Dean glances around as he locks the Impala, checking the surroundings for anyone or anything that might present a danger to his car. Sam, used to this, just waits. Dean finally gives the area a reluctant nod, and Sam asks, "Think your baby'll be okay?"

Dean turns to him, one of his usual retorts ready to come out, but then Dean's eyes drop and his eyes widen. "Hold on," Dean says. Sam stops instantly, looks at his brother. "That," is Dean has to say, nodding at the choker around Sam's neck.

Sam reaches a hand up, strokes the amulets. Without the hoodie, it's clearly visible. Dean's right; the people they're going to, they'll recognise the symbols instantly. It won't matter that he'll be able to enter a church, won't matter that he'll handle holy water without any outward sign. They'll see the sigils and know that he's connected to those demons. He looks up, meets Dean's eyes. 

"It'll have to come off," Dean says. He sounds apologetic.

"Yeah," Sam says. He reaches up, fiddles with the clasp, then lets his hands drop. Sam takes a deep breath, can't meet his brother's eyes. "Would you?"

Dean nods, doesn't say anything. Carefully, with his hands trailing the nape of Sam's neck, he undoes the catch, lets the necklace drop off into Sam's waiting hands. Sam's vision blurs as he starts hyperventilating, empty hand rising to feel the smooth, uninterrupted skin of his neck. It feels wrong, completely wrong, there's nothing of Lilith, nothing to remind him, and Sam's descending in to a full-blown panic attack when a strong, warm hand wraps around his neck from the back and squeezes. 

The pressure is just enough to take the edge off and give Sam a chance to breathe, to relax. He leans back into the pressure, feels it tight around his throat as he swallows. 

"Okay?" Dean asks. "Or you could always just shed a couple layers and put your hoodie back on. It covered that up before."

Sam steels himself, nods and forces himself to step away from his brother. Hair brushes on his neck; Sam almost jumps at the sensation. "No," he says. He clears his throat, tries again. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry." Sam shoves the choker in his back pocket.

Dean gives Sam a half-smile. "No problem." 

There's something glimmering in the back of Dean's eyes. Sam sees it before Dean turns away and can't forget it. He wishes he knew what it meant. 

\--

They leave the Impala and walk half a block to a nondescript building downtown, just off King Street, almost noticeable in its absence of colour or decoration. Dean glances around and Sam can guess what his brother sees: Dean's noting the traffic, the people, the sheer amount of life. 

"Never knew the Illuminati hid in places like this," Dean eventually says. 

Sam knocks on the door. "Best place to hide is in plain sight," he says. Dean shrugs, seems to accept that. 

There's some movement behind the frosted glass door a moment before it opens and a man on the wrong side of middle-aged peers out over his glasses at the two of them. "Can I help you?" he asks, eyes flicking over them. 

"We were hoping someone might be able to answer some questions," Sam replies, even and smooth. "If it helps, we'd like to talk to the person ranked most closely to the Illuminator."

The man's eyes widen. "Why?" 

"Just tell him," Sam says, "that two Sons of Minerva are here to visit." 

The door slams. 

Dean sighs, lets one hand move back to check the position of his gun as he scratches the back of his head with the other. "Sometimes I think Jim didn't do us much of a favour, giving us all that insider detail." 

"Yeah, but it's come in useful," Sam says. "Even Dad thought so. You gonna do the countdown or should I?" 

"Ten," Dean says in response. 

He gets to one and a different man opens the door, smiling. "Welcome to Charleston," he says. "Please, come in. We're happy to help, of course."

\--

"That went well," Dean mutters, getting in to the Impala and turning the key, engine roaring to life. He doesn't bother to ask if Sam's buckled up and ready to go, just takes off in a cloud of dust. Sam is buckled, has already put his choker back on and relaxed at the feeling of constriction around his throat, fingers tracing over every line of the amulets. "Treating us like we're idiots that don't know what the fuck the Illuminati is and how far their influence stretches, my ass. All we had were questions, we didn't need the history lesson, too. And, hey, I bet you know more about those old dead guys than they do." Sam doesn't say anything, just grins. Dean looks over, frowning, and says, "Well? Don't you?" 

"They _are_ the modern-day descendants, Dean," Sam says, prim and proper and respectfully enough to have Dean shaking his head in disbelief. The incredulous look Dean gives him next has Sam laughing so hard his ribs hurt. "Okay, yeah, they treated us like idiots. If we know enough to go to them, they should guess we at least know enough to pull up the _Code_ online and skim over it." Sam catches his breath, adds, "You know what makes it better?" 

Dean shrugs, shakes his head. "What?" 

Sam's grin is wide enough to split the road. "Know who they have masquerading as their _sophia_? Ruby." 

It takes Dean a second but then they're both laughing, Dean so hard that he has to pull over or risk crashing the Impala. 

"That's," Dean says, once he finds the breath to speak. "Oh, fuck. _Ruby_? God, it's like a demented Dan Brown novel." 

Sam stops laughing and stares at his brother. "Dan Brown?" he asks. "Really?" 

Dean shifts, signals and gets back on the road. "Shut up. Like a man could get three miles down the road or three minutes in to any serious TV watching and _not_ hear a mention. Book wasn't even that good. I mean, come on, like the church would let something like the Priory of Sion exist when they eradicated the Templars and sent the rest of them scurrying off to join the Masons."

"Which is how you know it was inspired by a demon," Sam mentions, using the same tone as Dean. 

"Yeah, exactly," Dean says, before he realises what Sam's just said. "Whoa. Hold on. Demons write _books_?"

Sam smiles fondly, thinking back to the memories and knowledge he gained on the cross. "A demon wrote the first book," he says. "And a different demon gave man the tools to write and the knowledge of language." He looks at Dean out of the corner of his eye and says, "Not to mention most weapons." 

Dean looks ill. "I have a _demon_ to thank for my gun? And the Colt?"

"You think anyone on earth could make a gun that'd be able to kill a demon?" Sam asks in return. 

"What about angels?" Dean asks. "No one seems to be talking much about them." 

Sam looks out of the window, suddenly tense. He knows Lilith, inside and out, knows all of the old, ancient demons, the ones who don't lose themselves in humanity, who remember and fill an eternity of eternities with remembering. "The Creator prefers to watch. And angels. They get involved when they feel like it." He looks down, makes sure his hands aren't curled into fists at the thought of Michael, of Jibril. "Usually at the worst possible time." 

"Possible for who?" Dean asks. 

Sam gives his brother a tight smile but doesn't otherwise answer. 

Neither of them say anything for the rest of the ride. 

\--

Dinner is Chinese take-out eaten over copies of the files that the Illuminati passed on. Dean's scanning the practical ones, the ones about how to kill descendants of the five primordials, while Sam's using chopsticks with one hand and turning pages from the file about the original primordials with the other.

Dean gets increasingly anxious and finally gives up, leaving his carton on the table to stand and walk over to the window. He puts his hands on the glass, leans forward and lets his head drop. Sam watches for a second but, when it looks like Dean's going to keep his own counsel about whatever's bothering him, turns back to his reading. 

It's enthralling, really, reading what thousands of people have put together over the course of six hundred years. According to the files, when God let the _ein sof_ out through the spheres of His creation, five different primordial beings were created over the ten stages of the Tree of Life, though not any of the sephiroth in logical order. 

Adam Kadmon, out of earth, was the last and thus the least powerful, Michael the first, out of light and the most powerful. Fire after light, air after fire, water after air, so the original being representing water won't have descendants much more threatening than humans and much less so than demons. At least, that's what Sam hopes. 

"Sam," Dean says, making Sam jump after the silence, after he'd already fallen halfway back into the reading, something about _netzach_ 's influence over the moon and thus its force on water. "Put that away for a few minutes, okay?"

Dean's tone sounds serious so Sam does as directed. His carton of food gets pushed next to Dean's and the page he's on is carefully marked before he closes the folder. Chopsticks rest next to pencil and highlighter and then Sam moves the chair so he can look at his brother. He's not exactly sure what this is all about but Dean looks like he's reached some sort of resolve, probably about whatever'd been bothering him during dinner. Sam would be lying if he said he wasn't intrigued but he learned well his lesson on curiosity in hell. Sam doesn't say anything, leaving it up to Dean. 

After another minute of what seems to be crumbling confidence, Dean strides across the room, reaches into his duffel, and takes out a flat black box, a plain black cord tied around the box keeping the lid on. Dean looks down at it, then thrusts it at Sam, not meeting Sam's eyes. Sam takes it and Dean steps back, says, "I got this a while back, but I wasn't. I mean, I didn't. It didn't seem like the right time." 

Looking carefully at his brother, Sam asks "Now is?"

"Yeah," Dean breathes out. He finally meets Sam's eyes. "Yeah, I think it is." 

Sam undoes the knot with his hands, not bothering with a knife. He lets the string fall over his knees, then lifts the lid and stares at what's inside. Lying on a bed of red tissue paper, looking both innocent and cruelly sinful, is a collar. 

He stares at the collar. His mouth is dry and he feels as if he doesn't have a tongue, as if there's no way speech will ever spill from his lips again. Dean bought him a collar. _Dean_ bought _him_ a collar. And not just any collar, either, oh, no. 

This one looks decadent but tough, leather as soft as buttercream and simple the way Dean likes things, with no adornments, letting the item speak for itself. A buckle sits to one side, gleaming silver. It reminds Sam of the Impala with her gleaming paint and sleek lines. He shouldn't be surprised that Dean would pick a collar similar to the thing Dean loves most in the world -- thing, not person, the hysterical part of Sam's mind reminds him. The more rational half wonders which of their fake credit cards bought it and how much it cost.

"Is this," he starts to say, has to stop and swallow, lick his lips. He doesn't dare look at his brother, not when he's hard, not when his heart is pounding so hard and fast he thinks he's going to die. "Is this so that other people won't be suspicious? In case we forget about the choker?" 

"No," Dean replies. The denial is instant. "I just. Well, that won't hurt anything, definitely. But that's not why." 

Sam looks up, stares at his brother. Dean's pupils are wide, his cheeks pale with spots of colour high on his cheekbones, as if Dean's both nervous and really, really turned on. "Then why?" 

"You, y'know," Dean says. "With Ruby, and the other demons, after Lilith. I just, to be sure, that's all." 

None of that made any sense and usually Sam can read between his brother's words without a problem. "Dean. What?" 

Dean takes a deep breath. It looks like he's forcing himself to speak slowly and then holding himself ready for denial or argument. Sam pays more attention to that, at first, than what Dean's saying; Dean's body language rarely lies or withholds any truth even when his words do. "I want everyone to know you're mine. Even with the demons, with Lilith and Ruby and, I guess, being their general and whatever. I want to know that you're mine, too. That's why." 

Sam blinks. He looks back down at the collar, reaches out before he knows what he's doing and strokes the leather. As soft as it looks, and padded the slightest bit on the inside; it's a princely collar and the irony of that doesn't elude Sam. It's different from Lilith's but Dean's different. Lilith's collar was subjugation as well as a mark of her favour and attention; it was to keep Sam in line and take away his sense of self. It accomplished both of those things and yet Sam, despite knowing Lilith's motives, still longs for it back around his throat. This, though, this is nothing more than a sign of possession, that and protection, love. 

He looks up at Dean, whose eyes are caught on the way Sam's finger is stroking the cool metal of the buckle. "Yes," he says. Dean's eyes snap to meet Sam's. "Yes," he says again. "But only if this is what you want."

"I would never have had the guts to ask for something like that if I didn't mean it," Dean replies, heat and wariness in his tone. 

Sam knows how much his brother hates chick-flick moments, hates talking about anything emotional. Dean doing it now, like this, _means_ something. He knows this just like he knows that the blood of Azazel runs through his veins; he'll never be able to forget either thing. 

With Dean's eyes watching, Sam balances the box on his lap and reaches up, undoes the clasp on the choker. The resulting disorientation and panic goes away quickly, Sam's gaze focused firmly on the collar on his lap. He wraps the choker around his left wrist, ties it around twice, and then puts the box's cord inside the collar's circle, picks up the box, and stands. 

Dean's not Lilith but Sam likes the ceremony, wants to overlay the memory of receiving her collar with being given the choice of Dean's, so he kneels in front of his brother and holds the box up, flat on his palms. "Will you?" he asks. 

Dean takes the box, takes out the collar and holds it for a minute. Sam tilts his head forward, holds his hair out of the way. "One last time, Sam," Dean says, low and quiet. "Are you sure?" 

There's only one answer. "Yes." 

Sam bends his head a little more, lets Dean wrap the collar around his neck and buckle it tight, tighter than the choker and with less give. 

They stay like that for a moment, Dean's hand curled tight in Sam's hair, Sam still on his knees and baring his neck to his brother. The room is quiet, still, and when Sam lets out a breath he think he's been holding since he emerged from hell into limbo, Dean says, "We're fucking. _Now._ "

"Yeah," Sam says. The need running through his veins scares him, feels like Lust and Greed and Gluttony all at once, but now with something more, something that feels a little like Azazel and a little like Lilith. It's _him_ , Sam realises, then realises that he doesn't care and that Dean doesn't either, not if the way Dean's pulling Sam by the hair to the bed has anything to do with it. 

Sam doesn't fight it, tries to start getting clothes off of both of them while Dean's still moving, and they're both naked seconds after Dean practically _throws_ Sam on the bed. On his back, pinned under Dean's body weight, Sam can't do much more than groan when Dean licks the collar, then the skin around it. 

"Mine," Dean says, pausing just long enough to prop himself up and stare at Sam. " _Mine_ , Sam." 

"Yeah," Sam replies, grinning -- he knows -- like an idiot. He reaches up, lets his fingertips dance along Dean's cheekbone before wrapping around his neck and forcing Dean's head down. Lips meet lips and then all bets are off when Dean ties Sam's wrists together above his head. Sam arches to look up, can't see what Dean used. 

Dean grins, eyes dark, and says, "The cord from the box." 

Sam gets shivers from the look and the tone, doesn't argue because he doesn't want to. Dean takes his acquiescence for the invitation it is and attacks Sam's body. Fingernails scratch Sam's sides, digging in and making Sam arch, chest meeting Dean's waiting mouth. Teeth dig in and bite, lips press on and suck, and by the time Dean's mouth closes around Sam's dick, Sam's body is covered with the proof of Dean's possession. He's bleeding in a few places, scabs from yesterday ripped off, lips and nipples swollen, bitemarks and bruises leaving not one square inch of Sam's skin unmarked. 

Dean sucks Sam off and starts bleeding from the wrists when he swallows down Sam's come. Sam's panting and blissed-out but he still notices, still says, "Dean, if you." 

"Not in a million years," Dean growls, turning Sam over. "No words, Sam," he adds, then starts circling Sam's hole with his tongue. Sam doesn't argue, just mewls the first time Dean's tongue finds its way inside of him, groaning when Dean's fingers follow and start stretching him. It isn't gentle but it is careful, and while Dean's opening Sam up, he's drawing his nails down Sam's back, teeth biting at whatever skin his mouth can reach. 

Dean takes out his fingers and Sam whines but then Dean's working his cock in and that's even better. Dean's strokes are punishing and long, not at all quick, and Sam's dick is hard again, ready for fast. He tries moving but his hands are still tied together and Dean presses on the small of Sam's back, holds him down, keeps him from grinding down on the mattress or pushing back onto Dean.

Torture, in the best way, even when some part of Sam's brain says that the blood on his back isn't his, has to be Dean's, the stigmata. He tries to say something about it, ask, but Dean smacks him, open palm to the ass, and says, "Shut the fuck up, Sam." 

When Dean comes, it's almost a surprise. Sam hadn't felt any change to the rhythm, hadn't gotten any warning; too fucked out and riding on pleasure to care, he feels Dean's come fill him and then Dean's body is on top of his, covering him, while Dean whispers in his ear. 

"Think I'd like to fuck you in front of all of them," Dean's saying, once Sam can mentally process the words. "Want to see the looks on their faces when they realise their precious general's _mine_. Make you suck me off in front of Lilith and then let you ride me until you come. Want them to see you wearing my collar, Sam, _mine_ , not theirs, and know that they can push you but you'll never be theirs, not as long as I'm around. That what you want, Sam?" 

"Yeah," Sam says, voice raw. "Dean, _please_." 

Dean says, " _Come_." 

Sam does, feels his muscles clenching around Dean's cock, still inside of him. 

Dean groans and doesn't move until they've both caught their breath. He pulls out of Sam, fingers the come leaking out of Sam's ass, then reaches up and unties the cord from around Sam's wrists. He thumbs over the raw, red line where the cord dug in. 

Sam tenses at the touch, feels an ache of pleasure sweep through his body. He rolls over and freezes, takes in the picture his brother makes. Dean's covered in sweat and his hair is sticking straight up in the front, straight out in the back, stubble making his face darker, the angles more intense, in the darkness. That's something he's seen before but the amount of blood covering Dean, covering the sheets, covering _Sam_ , isn't. He searches his brother's body, sees echoes of bloody holes on Dean's wrists, a large, gaping wound in his side, smeared blood all over his ankles. 

"Fuck," he whispers. It takes Sam another second before he can blink, ask, worried, terrified, "Are you. Are you all right? Dean, do you need. Fuck. Shower, hospital, transfusion, are you feeling weak?" 

"Feel like I just had the best orgasm of my entire life," Dean says, lying on his back, scratching at the trail of hair leading from his belly button to his dick. "I think a little fuzziness is allowed." He pauses then turns his head to look at Sam. "Lie down and tell me what the hell's going on." 

Lie down, in all the blood. Sam does without a second thought; he spent enough time in hell covered in blood, in lots of other things, too. He's tense, makes sure his body isn't touching Dean's, but Dean snorts, moves closer to Sam. 

"I never would have given you that collar if I didn't mean it," Dean says. "We go through a lot of freaky shit on a regular basis. I just what to know what this is because it seems an awful lot like stigmata to me and I never knew a person could get that by fucking hell's general." 

"What do you know about John the Baptist?" Sam asks. 

Dean frowns, says, "Cousin of Jesus, started the baptisms, killed by Salome and she danced with his head on a, hold on. Are you saying what I think you're saying?" 

Sam winces, not because of the name of God's son carving deep slices into his calves, but because of Dean's tone. "Sort of? You know, older relative of Jesus, started the work before Jesus did, was responsible, in a sense, for the beginning of Jesus' ministry."

"What," Dean says, has to stop and start over again. "What are you saying, Sam? Why do you get that kind of announcement?" 

"Well." Sam licks his lips, looks at his wrist, currently lying on his chest. The choker's covered in blood. Lilith's amulet looks red in this light. He never wanted to tell Dean this, never wanted Dean to know, but he's wearing Dean's collar and Dean told him, Dean _promised_ , that they'd work. "I'm sort of. Sort of the antichrist, I guess? You're my older brother, you started hunting before I did, and I began my, um, term in hell kind of, kind of because of you. There's a lot to do with empathy and identification too, I guess, but. Yeah." 

Every muscle is Sam's body is tense, waiting for whatever Dean's going to say, however Dean's going to react. He doesn't expect Dean to swat him on the hip, then lick one finger and start to try rubbing the dried blood off of his other arm.

"So what you're saying is," Dean says, then stops, takes a deep breath. His show of nonchalance would be almost believable if it wasn't for how badly his voice is shaking. "Sam, come on. What're you saying, that you're the fucking _king_ of hell now?" 

"Prince, really," Sam says. "Now that Azazel's gone, Lilith won't take." 

Dean growls, hearing Lilith's name. His nervousness has died a quick death, it seems. "That _bitch_ ," he spits out, words venomous as any of the snakes in the seventh Bolgia. "That fucking whore. She did this to you? She made you their, what, their crown prince?"

Sam narrows his eyes, turns to face his brother. "That _bitch_ ," he says evenly, carefully, though the anger is boiling up inside of him and simmering through his words, "is my _queen_ , Dean. Be careful what you say about her." Mouth opening and closing, Dean is clearly lost for words. Sam takes the opportunity to say, "It wasn't anything she did, though she was the one who bound me to that position. Azazel picked me the night he killed Mom. He made me drink his blood and he claimed me as his heir that night, way before Lilith even considered accepting me in your place. If you want to blame anyone besides me, blame him. He's dead; I don't owe him any loyalty." 

"But you owe your loyalty to Lilith," Dean says, barely holding back from snarling. "You're her fucking prince; kill her and you won't owe any of those creatures anything." 

The laugh bubbles in Sam's stomach and spills from between his lips a moment later. Dean's taken-aback at first, quickly returns to anger. "You," Sam says with a grin. "You and Caésinha both. You wouldn't believe how many demons have brought up the idea of a coup over the past months." He shakes his head, lifts one hand to touch the middle amulet on his necklace, the one of a heart bisected down the middle by a fishhook. He touches his throat, feels Dean's collar there instead of the choker and smiles, can't help it. 

Dean sees that, seems to calm just a little. 

Sam wonders how silly a smile he's currently sporting. He doesn't really care. "I couldn't," he goes on to say, serious now. "Lilith. I know Lilith manipulated me and never told me anything and," he stops before he says anything about the stake to his heart, about the crucifix. "She'll be the queen until she steps down or until someone else kills her. Considering she rarely leaves hell, the odds of the latter happening are slim to none."

Dean considers that carefully, almost too carefully. "She can die, though," he half states, half asks. "Like Azazel, right?" 

"Don't think about it," Sam says, tone flat. Dean looks at him. "Not for one instant, Dean."

"Fine," Dean says. He sounds petulant, like a little child, but then his eyes darken and he sits up. 

The sheet pools around Dean's waist as he stares at Sam, shivers to the bed when Dean slides out from under it. Dean paces for a minute, then pulls on his jeans but doesn't bother zipping the fly or buttoning them up. Sam stands as well, doesn't waste time with clothes. He doesn't ask, won't, will instead wait for Dean to bring up whatever he's just thought about.

"Can I ask you a question, Sam?" he finally says, his back to Sam. "Will you be honest?" 

Sam studies his brother. He has no idea what Dean's going to say, what limits they have now that Dean knows what he is and Sam is wearing Dean's collar. 

Talking about sex is one thing but Dean has never liked to push about Sam's time in hell, never likes to hear what Sam went through or how he changed even though he _needs_ to know. Dean's learnt enough at this point to assume answers to all the questions he hasn't asked; Sam thinks Dean assumes correctly more than he should have any right to. The only thing left, the only secret Sam's keeping, is the secret of that long and curving word of Greek. "If I can be," he finally says. 

Dean is going to ask about it. 

"When I die," Dean asks, "what's going to happen to me?" Sam doesn't say anything, just stands there, looking at his brother's back. Dean turns around, meets Sam's eyes, asks again. "Sam. What's going to happen when we die?" 

"I go back to hell," Sam says, point-blank. He'll tell the truth. There's no reason to sugarcoat it, not any more.

Dean grimaces but looks like he expected that answer. "As their fucking prince. Yeah. And me? Where do I go? I'm your freaking John the Baptist, Sam; what the hell does that mean for me?" Sam blinks. He meets Dean's eyes, doesn't look away, doesn't so much as flinch. Dean does, though, at whatever he sees in Sam's gaze. "Tell me, Sam. Please." 

"In order to become their saviour," Sam says, slow and steady, "I had to redeem a human. The Christ typology in reverse. I took all of one human's sins upon myself and suffered all the torment that hell had to offer on behalf of that one person." 

"No," Dean says. His face is pale, tight and drawn. It looks like he's going to throw up. "No, Sam. Don't. Don't tell me that you became. Not for _me_. Sam, _please_."

Sam doesn't look away. Pride would be pleased, Sam thinks, at what Sam's saying, and Wrath, at how. "I offered myself in your place, willingly and completely. You've been redeemed. You're sinless, Dean. You'll go to heaven when you die and that's a good thing. Hell would destroy you; you're not strong enough to survive it."

There are tears brimming in Dean's eyes. Sam would feel guilty for putting them there, but they're there because Dean's safe and Sam will never apologise for that. Dean is safe. Sam would do it all again, the same way, if he had to. 

"What if I don't care?" Dean takes a deep breath, says, "Sam, you can't believe I'd want to go anywhere you aren't. I don't. Look, Ruby told me what happens to humans down there. I don't _care_." He sounds broken, shattered. 

"She lied." Sam says it, finally looks away, turns his back. He can hear Dean take one step, holds out one hand to the side, hears his brother stop. "Humans don't become demons, Dean, it goes against every ounce of theology we've ever known and you just, what, _believed_ her? Demons lie. Ruby is." He stops, lets out one self-deprecating bark of laughter, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Ruby is the princess of lies and hell is a neverending torment. Sycorax told me that they had a place marked out and waiting for you in the eighth circle. D'you want me to tell you what that's like? I walked through it, y'know, naked and on the end of a demon's leash. Snakes everywhere, and scorpions, everything that bites and stings; rocks fall all the time, battering and breaking and." 

"Stop," Dean growls, cutting Sam off. "Sam, for. Just _stop_ , okay? This is. There's no way I'm going to heaven without you."

Sam sits down on the edge of one bed, looking at the floor, hunched over and small. "Mom'll be there," he says, hears Dean's sharp intake of breath. "Mom and Dad. Ash. Caleb and Pastor Jim. Cassie, probably, when she dies, and Bobby, Ellen, Jo." He pauses, then says, quieter. "Jess."

Dean takes a step forward and, when Sam doesn't say anything, takes another and another, until he's perched on the bed next to Sam. "Sam. Isn't it what they say: it's better to rule in hell than serve in heaven?" 

Sam snorts, tilts his head to look at Dean through his bangs. "I think you have that backwards. Better to serve in heaven than rule in hell." 

"Not if you're the one in charge," Dean says bluntly. "You won't let any of those sons of bitches hurt me." 

Blind faith. Dean has such blind faith. He can almost hear Sycorax mocking Dean, can see the curl of Lilith's lip, can taste Ruby on his lips. 

"You'd be a soul in hell," Sam replies. "No one would have to touch you for you to be in pain."

"Then find a way around it." Dean makes it sound so simple, so easy. "It's what you're good at." 

That's true. 

He'll start looking in the morning. The hunt they're on can wait. If there's a way, Sam will find it. And if there's a way that he and Dean can be in hell together, both of them whole, both of them as sane as they ever get, Sam will do anything to make it happen. 

He reaches up, touches his collar, sees Dean's eyes darken. 

Anything.


End file.
